


Socially Responsible Graffiti

by Shrewreadings



Series: Badger-Verse [4]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Badgers, Gen, Humor, M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-27
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-19 15:53:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shrewreadings/pseuds/Shrewreadings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers has a strong feelings on the subject of traffic safety when it comes to elementary schools.</p><p>And good handwriting. Even with paint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Brighton Beach, Brooklyn, New York, NY**

Everyone, at some point, has had the fantasy. Your phone rings in the middle of the night. You pick up, say 'Hello,' and the voice at the other end says 'This is Captain America and I need your help.' Roll opening credits, preferably with A-Team or MacGyver themes.

The reality of the call goes more like this. It's 5:30, you've got "Morning Edition" on the radio, you're ahead of schedule, and actually have time to work on a section of the dissertation before changing for work when the phone rings.

"Caroline Lakehurst."

"This is Steve Rogers. Totally exact impiety is ominous."

While scrambling for a pen, you try to remember if you used the passwords for identification for ID first, and then for the situation, for both at the same time, or just for the situation 'I need a lawyer, right now.' 

In this particular instance, Caroline went with the situational response. If it caused the onset of the apocalypse, then she'd deal with it after the horsemen showed up. "Hostile ramblers unarm earworms. Where are you?"

"Under arrest." Caroline could hear the echo and rattle of jail cells opening and closing.

"Were you _specifically_ told that?"

"Yes."

"Did you say you wanted to exercise your right to remain silent?"

"Yes, Caroline, I remembered my lines."

"Cute is better suited to Tony, Captain. What precinct are you at?"

"86th and the Park."

"Stay put. Don't say _anything_ to anyone – at all. I'll be there in…" she looked at her watch. "Fuck, it's almost rush hour. Don't say anything. I'll see you as soon as I can. You're not in danger?"

"No."

"Good: I'll call the precinct and find out what's going on. We are probably not going to be able to talk again before you're arraigned: don't panic."

"Got it." The phone started beeping to indicate they were out of time, and they were disconnected.

Caroline looked at the phone. "Fuck, I really hope he's not wearing the suit."

What happened next was a scramble for court-appropriate clothes, contact lenses, sidearm, mobile, tablet, briefcase and legal pad. In the middle of trying to get holster on, the phone rang again.

“Caroline Lakehurst.”

“Merry Christmas from Chiron Beta Prime.”

“Code Monkey like you.” She waited two beats for the ID confirmation.

“ID confirmed, comms to secure.” Coulson answered.

“Phil, I can't talk. Have to get to Rogers, he's under arrest."

"I know." Coulson said. "Your ride will be there in 2 minutes."

"Good. Wait." She stood, sidearm holstered, one foot in shoe, one stocking foot. "How do you know?"

"He called me."

"When?"

"Mmm, five?"

"Minutes ago?" Calling your handler after your lawyer was okay: not great, but okay, given the circumstances.

"AM."

"Phil, you're not going to hear this."

"Understood."

"When I get my hands on that jumped up, self-righteous, overbearing prig, I'm going to kill him. He called you _FIRST?_ Did he learn _nothing_ from our conversation?"

"Which one was this?"

There was a honk outside. "Tell you later. Who's my ride?"

"Barton."

"Hell, that means the bike. Do I need to bring pants for the Captain?" She pulled a backpack out of an under-bed drawer and re-packed her gear into it, then rolled the suit jacket and added it to the top of the pack.

"Barton's got 'em. Just in case." 

"Good. See you at Centre Street." She hung up as the front door to the apartment opened and the alarm disengaged (and how did her life get to Avengers having keys to her apartment and codes to her alarm?) "In here, Clint. Two seconds." She reached for a makeup wipe to lose the lipstick: helmets went over the head and neither desk sergeants nor judges thought 'smeared' went with 'professional.'

Clint Barton looked at her through the bedroom door, opened her closet and looked speculatively at the coat offerings. "What the hell, counselor, don't you have anything practical?" He eyed her grey wool greatcoat covetously.

"Hands off the wool, Barton." She came out with the backpack, reached past him into the closet and pulled out a bomber's jacket. On her, it hung huge on the shoulders and at the waist – but fit across the chest. 

Clint's avarice redirected itself. "That's not a reproduction."

"Nope." She reached up to the closet's hat shelf for the helmet she'd been issued. 

"There's no way that's yours."

"Not originally, no." She pulled on the backpack. "Ready?"

"Uhm." Clint looked at her feet. "You might want your other shoe."

She looked down. "Fuck." 

*~*~*

The handy thing about the hands-free sets that Tony Stark had designed for the Avengers' (and, to Caroline's surprise, their lawyer's) use was that the voice dial function actually _worked._ She could talk to the desk sergeant at the Central Park precinct, and while riding pillion wasn't her favorite form of transportation, she'd done enough of it lately with Clint that she knew she wasn't going to come off. 

She was not, however, prepared for him to cut along the bike path and go shooting up East River Drive. The helmet buffered most of the pedestrians' cursing.

"Intercom." Caroline ordered. "Little warning, next time! And turn it around, they've got him on a bus to Central Booking."

"Hell. Hang on." They made the sharp turn on to 65th Traverse and back down West, back to lower Manhattan. "What are they charging him with, anyway?"

"Making graffiti, possession of graffiti making instruments, carrying concealed weapons, criminal mischief, obstruction of justice, and resisting arrest."

"Cap. Obstruction of justice." 

"Tell me about it. It's probably just there to try to get us to take a plea."

"This ought to be fun." They pulled into a slot reserved for law enforcement vehicles at the courthouse.

**Central Booking, Centre Street, Manhattan, New York, NY**

Miles knew he was freaking out. He'd wanted to walk home from debate practice instead of taking the bus or a cab (not that he'd have been able to get a cab since Bill had left before Miles did): it'd been a nice evening, one of the first since spring. He knew stop-and-frisk was more likely to target him than other guys: young, male and black, walking in New York City. But he'd spent the whole day cooped up in school, and he wasn't going to be on the street long. His grandmother had told him that if he missed his curfew, he'd be going with her to early Sunday services for a month.

Naturally, walking like he had somewhere to be while carrying a backpack in the Upper East Side was a guarantee of being stopped.

He knew the mantra. His father had drilled it into his head when he'd hit five foot one: "Sir, I'm exercising my right to remain silent. I'm not speaking to you without an attorney present. Sir, I do not consent to a search of my person or belongings. Sir, I do not consent to an electronic search of my person or belongings." Repeat with appropriate variations for gender until taken to the precinct, give name (Miles Hattaway), address (East 118th Street), date of birth (June 12, 1996), social security number, call home. If no answer, call Uncle Peter, the lawyer in the family. 

The part where he spent the night at the Central Park Precinct and was then sent to Central Booking for 'disorderly conduct,' 'resisting arrest,' and 'carrying concealed weapons,' (a flashlight and Swiss Army knife) had been something his father left out.

So, yeah, he was freaking out.

Under the circumstances, he felt that it was a reasonable reaction.

His secondary goal was to get out of Central Booking without blowing any chance of going to college: he knew that 'charges dropped' mattered a lot more than 'arrested,' particularly in the days of the Occupy protests.

His most immediate goal was to get out of the holding cell alive.

To try to ensure that outcome, he kept moving. Counting the lengths of the wall of bars he completed kept his mind off the looming horror he knew was coming: dealing with his mother over missing school. He was up to 298 lengths: over the last four hours, he'd gotten the 50 foot length down to 42 seconds. He was focused on where he was going, and on not bumping into anyone. 

He was surprised, then, when he managed to run into the paint-spattered, tall, blond, Aryan poster-boy from the precinct who had been leaning against the wall both at the precinct and now down at Central. So far, he wasn’t acting predatory, freaky, or weird. Except that guards kept asking him when he was born – and laughing like hyenas when the guy kept saying ‘July 4, 1918.’

"You've been at it for a while." Paint-spattered Aryan had a sealed, plastic-wrapped sandwich and carton optimistically labeled 'fruit punch' in his hands. "Take a break. I'll watch your back."

Miles' training came to his rescue. "Sir, I am exercising my right to remain silent. I am not speaking to you without an attorney present." Despite this, his stomach growled.

He smiled. "Just take the sandwich, son." Miles found himself steered toward the spot on the wall where the other guy had been leaning. "The 'punch' is disgusting, but it beats dehydration. Almost." He put himself between Miles and the rest of the occupants in the holding cell. 

Miles bet that Tall Blond and Aryan's smile got him a lot of girls. The teenager ate the sandwich.

They were pulled out of the holding cell for arraignment at the same time and sent into different interview rooms. Apparently paint-spattered Aryan's name was Steve – and his lawyer or girlfriend or both sounded _pissed._

"You called me second."

"Caroline…"

"You called me _second._ I got a call after you from Phil Coulson, and I'm only slightly surprised that you didn't call _Tony_ before you called me. Did we not discuss the order of calls in the event of interaction with law enforcement last week?"

"We did."

"Then why the _hell_ did you not. Call. Me. FIRST?!?!" 

There was a 'snap' from the adjoining booth, but before Miles could figure out what it was, he had a more immediate problem:

His mother had shown up with Uncle Peter in her 'going to give testimony against a murderer she'd arrested' police uniform. The one with all the ribbons on it.

He was so, so dead.

*~*~*

"Right. So, the next time you have any interaction with the law enforcement community, who do you call first, Captain?"

"You."

"And how do you answer questions asked by anyone who isn't me?"

"Yes, no, I don't know. Name, address, employer, phone number of employer, your phone number."

"Excellent. Now," Caroline tore the cover off of a new legal pad. "What the hell happened?"

*~*~*

“Docket number 403-44514, _People vs. Steven G. Rogers,_ charges of making graffiti, possession of graffiti-making instruments, carrying concealed weapons, criminal mischief, obstruction of justice, and resisting arrest."

Judge Naomi Cagle looked at the file in front of her, noting the defendant's stated date of birth, and at the assemblage in front of her. “Counsel, approach.”

The assistant DA walked to the bench. The defense attorney told her client firmly, “Stay put,” and followed.

“I’m seeing a date of birth of July 4, 1918. There is no way this gentleman is 94 years old. Is this a matter that should be going to the Mentally Ill / Chemically Addicted courts, Mr. Gates?”

The ADA answered, “yes. He’s been insisting he’s Captain America ever since his arrest.”

Judge Cagle looked at the defense attorney. “I’m sorry, Ms…”

“Lakehurst, Your Honor. Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division, and Captain Rogers’ attorney.” She passed paperwork to Gates. “Copy of my notice of appearance. And no, Your Honor, this matter does not need to go to the MICA courts.”

Gates coughed. “Aren’t we supposed to be on the same side, if you’re with SHIELD?”

“It’s never particularly been my experience that lawyers working for the city and those working for the Federal government are on the same side, but I suppose there’s always a first time.” Caroline answered.

Gates started to retort, and Cagle interrupted. “Ms. Lakehurst, you’re admitted to the NY Bar?”

“I am, Your Honor.”

“Fine: if defense isn’t going to assert that this is a MICA matter, then we’ll proceed as usual. Step back, please.” 

Both attorneys went back to their desks.

“Defense, do you waive reading?”

“We do, Your Honor,” Caroline answered.

“And do you wish to enter a plea?”

Caroline looked at Steve and nodded permission to answer. 

“Not guilty, Your Honor.” He answered.

“Very well. People on bail?”

“The defendant was arrested while vandalizing private property and property of the City, your honor. You can see that he’s still paint-spattered: he was carrying a bag with more paint, pens consistent with the definition of ‘graffiti making instruments,’ knives and a handgun. He resisted arrest, has been uncooperative since, and may be a danger to self and or others. We request remand.”

“Asserting one's Fifth Amendment rights and refusing consent to search one's person or belongings is not being uncooperative. And although I know they’d like it to be, I'm not aware that being uncooperative with the police is actually a criminal offense. As yet, however, asserting one's Fourth Amendment rights and saying ‘I don’t consent to a search of my person or belongings’ is not yet actually a crime." Caroline countered. "The ‘knives’ are palette knives: you'd have better luck cutting adamantium with a bookmark than getting them to take an edge. Captain Rogers' work requires that he carry the handgun he has a permit to both own and carry concealed, and since the Central Park Precinct is not reporting any officers injured since Captain Rogers' arrest at 2 AM, I find it unlikely that he actually resisted arrest. This leaves us with, possibly, a class E misdemeanor, and ROR is not only appropriate, but the second most efficient use of the city’s time and resources.”

“And the most efficient, Ms. Lakehurst?” Judge Cagle asked.

“Dismissal, Your Honor.”

“Not going to be me making that call, Ms. Lakehurst.”

“Your Honor?”

“Mr. Gates.”

“If the defense asserts that this is not a MICA matter, then there is the matter of access to resources that facilitate flight: Mr. Rogers’ landlord has not just a fleet of private jets, but a fleet of flying suits. And this doesn't take into account the assets his employers could bring to his aid.”

“I’m certain I didn’t just hear Mr. Gates suggest that the United States Government would help a defendant flee the jurisdiction before trial.” Caroline said.

“As am I, Ms. Lakehurst.” Judge Cagle agreed. “Mr. Gates, realistically?”

“$250,000 would satisfy the people.”

“I’m sure it would. However, they’re not getting it today. $25,000, cash or bond. Next case!”

Steve blanched at the figure. “Caroline, I can’t possibly raise that much…”

“Yes, you can actually, remember? The cash balance in your savings account alone could stand the hit. However, as I advised Mr. Dai here,” she nodded toward the bailiff who was coming to escort Steve back to the adjoining holding cell, “before you were brought in, we’ll be posting it just as soon as we get to the cashier’s window. Hang tight, you’ll be out in about 30 minutes.” She picked up her papers and crossed the aisle to the ADA.

"Ms. Lakehurst," he said guardedly.

"Mr. Gates. You probably want to tell your boss that he really, really doesn't want to do this." She handed over her business card and several filings. "My card. Motion to suppress the contents of the bag, motion for dismissal of the charges on weapons, resisting arrest, and obstruction of justice, and, seriously, you want to charge _Captain America_ with obstruction of justice?" 

"I really expected this to go to MICA." Gates sheepishly offered his card in return.

"I have to say you handled the disclosure pretty well." Caroline conceded, taking the card and tucking it into her suit pocket. "See you at pre-trial."

The clerk called, "Docket number 403-44515, _People vs. Miles L. Hattaway,_ carrying concealed weapons, resisting arrest, obstruction of justice."

*~*~*

Clint stood as Caroline got to their row in the courtroom to follow her out: Phil, oddly, stayed seated. "That was more fun than I remembered." Clint said.

"I don't often get a chance to let my snark explore the full range of pretension. Phil?" She smiled as they got into the corridor. 

"Watching the next; kid broke the 8 hour limit last night. Steve came into the cell at 3, they were transported down here together, and here it is 11:30 – and can I say that waiting down here was more boring than sitting in sensitivity training when Natasha's on assignment?"

"You can say whatever you like, Clint, you're not being charged with anything. Who's got the money?"

"That'd be me, Daddy Warbucks to the rescue." Tony was strolling up the hallway, briefcase in hand.

Caroline blinked. "That is a seriously disturbing image, Tony. I'm going to require brain bleach. Not as bad as we'd figured: we're not going to need the full suitcase."

"Good, because I wasn't going to put the armor up as collateral." Tony pulled an envelope out of his suit jacket. "Bail money. Unless it can go on the card?"

"It's Manhattan. They haven't gotten to the 20th century yet, so it's got to be cash, cashier's check or money order. Fortunately, it's only 25 grand. What'd you bring?"

Tony flipped through the envelope. "Some cashier's checks, some cash. Plenty to cover the tab." 

Phil came out of the courtroom with the participants in the case that had followed Steve's. "I'm going to ask you to stay with Agent Barton while we arrange for transportation, Captain Rogers' release, retrieval of his effects, and retrieval of Miles’ effects. We can finish this at your office, if you're more comfortable, Mr. Lewis?"

The older African-American man looked at the woman in the police uniform. She nodded, and he answered, "I think we _would_ be more comfortable with that, yes, Mr. Coulson."

"Uhm, I'm not comfortable with…" the young man began. 

His mother swatted him upside the head. "Miles: Yes, no, I don't know. You don't get a say in this one."

"Yes, ma'am."

She turned to Coulson. "My brother's office will be fine, Mr. Coulson." 

"That's fine. Agent Barton?" 

"That's my cue," Clint said with a smile and walked toward Coulson and his companions. Coulson headed directly towards the property desk, leaving the trio with Clint.

Tony looked at Caroline. "So, where do we trade our prize tickets in for one genuine article Captain America?"

"Cashier's window." Caroline said. "Downstairs."

*~*~*

Bail posted, they took their receipt to collect Steve, and the property voucher to collect his shoelaces, belt, wallet and ID. The bag and its contents were still being held as evidence, as was the gun. 

Steve looked from Tony to Caroline. "Thank you. Both of you. Tony, I'll pay you back as soon as I get to my checkbook…" Caroline glared at him.

"Stick a sock in it, Cap." Tony said, reading the international lawyer sign telling a client to shut the fuck up from Caroline. "It's fine, we'll get it back when this thing's settled. Hey, where're you going?" Caroline was heading for the security desk.

"Retrieving sidearm. No guns in court," She answered, presenting ID and signing her weapon back out. She turned back to Tony while they were waiting for the gun to be retrieved. "I thought poor Clint was going to burst something when they told him. I didn't have the heart to tell the poor security guy that there wasn't a chance in hell that the obvious sidearm was the only one Clint was carrying. Thank you." She took her sidearm from the desk sergeant and holstered it. "I've been in here since 6:30. How bad are the press out there?"

Tony shook his head. "My arrival didn't attract more than the usual 'New York blasé' yawn. Happy's got the car…" he looked at his phone, "about 200 yards away, and we can go straight into it. I don't think anyone has really caught on yet."

Caroline looked skeptical. "Oh, this just _screams_ imminent fail." She retrieved her jacket from where it was sitting on top of her backpack, and looked back at Tony. "Ten bucks says you're wrong."

"Piker. Ten grand."

"Government employee. Ten bucks."

"Ten bucks if I win; ten grand if you do."

"Split at five."

"Done." She shouldered her backpack and handed her leather jacket to Steve. "Here: this fit Bob; should do you fine. The collar can provide some cover if you need it."

Steve took the jacket, pulled it on, turned up the collar. "Thanks."

She thwapped him upside the head. "That's two. Stop saying things."

"Yes ma'am."

"Better."

Caroline won. The reporters were 20 deep. Tony sighed and handed her the envelope. “Change?” he said hopefully.  


Caroline gave him back the cashier’s checks and tucked the cash into her bag. “In your dreams, Stark.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myopic lawyers make moles look like snipers. Also, tabloispheres can explode

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I was looking at this chapter today, and realized that it was missing something.  
> Namely, about 400 words in the middle.  
> I tried to edit, no dice: so here is a re-post. If you commented before, THANK YOU for your awesomeness!! I'm sorry I deleted everything - but the section that was missing is kind of necessary to the story that comes after "The Rogers Movement."
> 
> Thank you for your cooperation.

"Where to, Justice Junky?" Tony slid into the front seat of the AMG next to Happy, having pushed Caroline into the back with Steve.

"Good question." Caroline had her mobile out and to her ear, waiting for the other party to pick up. "Blast. Voicemail."

"Problem?" Steve asked. "Wait, can I…"

"Yes, you may talk now. And sort of?" Caroline answered. "I was supposed to meet with Dr. Banner at 9:30; had to stand him up to get the filings done for you. E-mailed him to see if we could bump it to this afternoon, but he hasn't replied, and he's not picking up." She looked at Tony. "Did Dr. Banner say he had anything slated for today that would keep him away from e-mail or computer?"

"He's not surgically connected to his phone the way some of us are." Steve answered, looking at Tony, a fond smile on his face.

"Hey. Love me, love my tech. He didn't mention anything," Tony directed this last to Caroline.

"Fooey." She looked at the phone and called the office."Dave, Caroline. Has Dr. Banner been in today?"

"Uh, you know…" Tony said as she was talking.

"I've tried talking to her when she's like this. It's kind of hopeless." Steve said.

"I get that feeling." Tony said as Caroline continued with legal-Dave. "Hell with it. Happy, home."

"Got it, Boss."

"Thanks." She hung up. "Well, he hasn't been by my office. Where are we going?"

"Avengers' Not-So-Super-Secret Treehouse."

She blinked, and mentally translated. "Stark Tower. Works, I guess: I've already missed daily staff. You were trying to get my attention?" She asked Tony.

"Wasn't sure you noticed."

"I noticed. I just didn't stop what I was doing."

"New experience for you, then, Tony." Steve, who could spot a bicker at 100 yards, pulled out his own phone.

"Cute. I was going to say, dial Jarvis, he can track Bruce down for you."

"Your AI tracks your housemates. What am I saying, of course your AI tracks your housemates. Small problem." She held up the phone. "No number."

Tony held up his hand. "Pass it over, I can fix that."

"Sure. Right. I'm sorry, I know I've been at work for seven hours now, but do I look like I just fell off the turnip truck?" Steve shook his head at Caroline's response, as he texted Jarvis.

"Sort of." Tony answered. "Might be the cheap mascara. So that's a no on the phone number?"

"If you'll just tell me the number, I actually _can_ put it in myself. I've got an expensive education. Also, thumbs."

Steve, meanwhile, had his answer. "Bruce got your e-mail and is in his lab. Jarvis' number is 212-387-2418."

"Thank you, Captain." Caroline put the number into her phone, then looked back at Tony again. "Also, (a) government employee and (2) no point in buying expensive mascara: you just have to replace it every 6 months or whenever you get a cold."

Tony looked thoughtful. "Huh. So there'd be a market for a Self-sanitizing mascara wand?"

"Probably," Caroline answered.

"Interesting idea."

"Glad to be of service." Caroline smiled and pulled her tablet out of her backpack to try to catch up on work.

*~*~*

Caroline looked up blearily from table in the main kitchen when Tony came in. “Hey.” She pushed her glasses up her nose and went back to typing on the loaner laptop she'd bummed off Bruce.

"I usually get a warmer welcome from scantily clad women when I come into a room." He got himself coffee and sat down, nodding at the tank top she'd stripped down to following another in her string of chronic coffee disasters.

She snorted, flipped him off and continued typing.

"Eloquent as always, Jawbones." He set his mug down, "Jarvis, e-mail, to the table, please."

"Yes, sir."

The table surface lit up with the overflowing in-box of tstark@starkindustries.com. He sorted by sender, mass deleted about 2/3ds and started on the rest, starting with those from Pepper.

The colors bouncing around the table caught Caroline's attention and she looked up. "Sorry to bogart your kitchen table."

"You'll get chased off in while, anyway. Cap's got this thing about family style dinners when we're all in town and available." He started a blank e-mail to Pepper, copying and pasting the parts he was replying to from other e-mails into it.

"I should probably get a move on, then," she said, saving her work and opening an e-mail. "I appreciate the hospitality."

Tony shrugged. "Really wasn't much point in you taking off for the West Side by the time you and Bruce got through. He talk to you?"

"The ‘Dr.’ Banner thing?"

"Yeah."

"Yep."

"Going to share with the other children?"

"I'm pretty sure you already know, _Dr_. Stark." She answered. "I do seem to recall being told on more than one occasion that departmental grants funded by SI were part of what were, in effect, paying for my continued existence, so maybe I'd want to think twice before badmouthing the hard sciences and / or the military-industrial complex."

"Yeah, about that." He flicked 'send.' "You left grad school to go to law school in Brooklyn?"  
  
Caroline zip-compressed the files she was working on, attached them to the e-mail and sent them to her work e-mail. "I'm sure you've hired enough recent Ph.D.s to know how this works for us mortals: you get in, they give you a tuition waiver and a maybe a stipend, off you go. _Especially_ for history, where waivers are rare, and stipends even more so.”

"For grad school. You left for law school, which is a different," he waved and pitched the e-mails he'd replied to into a file marked 'Stupid company stuff for Pepper,' "entire thing."

"Not really. You go where you get in, Mr. Stark."

"Yeah, but you left Michigan for Brooklyn, and now you're at _Farmingdale?_ Long Island? Really? Close it down, Jarvis."

"Sir." The table-top went back to looking like some black, opaque substance.

Amused, Caroline replied, "I'm told all _sorts_ of useful things have come out of Long Island, Mr. Stark, even the occasional president and former CEO of Fortune 500 companies that singlehandedly reshape the green energy and telecommunications industries."

Tony toasted with coffee mug. "Touché."

" Besides: my other option was Jersey." Caroline copied her files on to her own tablet, cleaned them off the loaner's hard drive and shut the computer down. She stood up to stretch: Tony didn't try to avoid being distracted by the cleavage now conveniently at eye height. "Ow. Knew I should have set an alarm."

"Mmm?"

"A 'Get up and stretch, moron' alarm. Otherwise," she waved at the computer and tablet "Hours of hyperfocused lawyering. Or writing."

"Engineering oblivion. Been there."

"Imagine it's more profitable when it hits you. I just tend to lose my shirt." she gestured at the tank top. "In this case, literally. Made the mistake of wearing court clothes outside of court. The guaranteed sartorial disaster struck mid-afternoon. Jarvis was kind enough to point me in the direction of the laundry."

Jarvis added, "and the dryer cycle will finish in 30 minutes, Ms. Lakehurst."

"Thanks, Jarvis."

"You're welcome, ma'am."

"Be prepared for Steve to blush a lot at dinner."

Caroline looked over her glasses at Tony's AC/DC t-shirt. "He finds your tendency towards 80s rock band t-shirts that embarrassing?" Caroline asked, picking the backpack up and looking through it to see if she'd thought far enough ahead to put a spare shirt into it that morning: she didn't want to chance the newly-cleaned shirt on the subway.

"More like vast stretches of skin distracting. On anyone. Thor's Asgardian sensibilities can make Steve turn eggplant colored, especially if they're both around the sauna at the same time."

"Blast." She had not far enough ahead to pack a spare shirt. "I knew I was trying to forget something." She fished a stylus out of the bag and scribbled a note on the tablet that read, 'Asgardian civil and criminal law for dummies.' "Thank you, that could have been embarrassing, and I'm pretty sure it's on the agenda for the day after tomorrow." She slid tablet into the backpack, pulled the suit jacket off the back of her chair, re-rolled it for transport and set it next to the pack on the kitchen chair.

"And tonight?"

"Sorry?"

"What's on your agenda tonight that's got you ignoring my not so subtle attempt to get you to stay for dinner? I haven't had to work this hard to get an invitation accepted since I was a junior at Andover."

"You were 13 when you were a junior at Andover."

"Precisely my point. C'mon, stick around. It's Clint's night to cook, and I think he's doing his chicken, zucchini and prosciutto thing with linguine."

"Which," Clint said, coming in, "I have on good authority is actually considered a food of the Gods. Caroline, why do I have an e-mail from Ken Pollard at HQ griping about you not showing up for your range time today?"

"We were kind of in the middle of getting Steve out of jail at the time." Caroline answered, pulling together the yellow pages of notes on the table. "And while I fear Ken as much as anyone else with a microgram of self-preservation does, I fear Judge Naomi Cagle more. Since I'd already filed my notice of appearance, _not_ showing up when he was arraigned is contempt, which is an automatic bench warrant. And really, my life is surreal enough without being arrested by my coworkers." She slid the notes into the pack between the envelope containing Tony's ex-c-notes and the tablet and pulled the zip shut.

"Point. But we've got a range here, so go put in an hour, would you?" He finally took in her shirt, or lack of. "Consider a shirt, first. I have it on excellent authority that hot brass and exposed cleavage are a painful combination. One of mine'll probably fit, I'll be back in a minute."

"I want that story." Tony said. "I demand storytime after dinner."

"It's Phil's turn to pick 'after-dinner entertainment;' put it on the list for when your turn comes around." Clint retorted, on his way back down the stairs.

"It's a conspiracy," Caroline muttered, shoving the notes in with unnecessary force, "a plot to keep me from finishing this degree. First Bob McDermott, then ESU Farmingdale's funding, and now a global conspiracy of superheroes with their laser guided targeting systems aiming at…" She followed the notes with the jacket and looked up at Tony's teeth-grinding wince. "Problem?"

"Just sympathizing with the jacket. It probably doesn't deserve that kind of treatment."

She looked at the jacket, still clenched in her hand and seams starting to strain from the pull, and consciously relaxed her grip. "Probably not, no. It _has_ been quite serviceable."

"Range is eight levels down, and you pass Clint's floor on the way. I'll let him know where you are, or Jarvis will. Go shoot things, it always makes me feel better."

"Good advice." She shook the jacket back out, set it over the chair with more care, and headed downstairs.

Tony waited until he heard her on the steps before he fished out her tablet and started snooping through her files. He had half a nanosecond of guilt over ordering Jarvis to copy them on to the Tower mainframe, along with her cloud storage.

Then he got over it. Privacy was for people who could actually keep him out of their systems. Or, in Pepper and Rhodey's cases, for people who could actually hurt him if he didn't choose to stay out. If Caroline was going to leave her stuff lying around him, she knew the risks she was taking.

*~*~*

 

"What I _don't_ get," Clint said, searing a 12th chicken breast before adding it to the roasting pan, "Is why Ken actually let her loose on the street unaccompanied with that kind of score." He nodded at the target he'd brought up with them from the range as he stood up from putting the roasting pan into the oven. Very few of bullet holes actually went through the paper: only two were inside the target outline itself.

Phil held the target up against the light. He'd been at the counter with a beer, slicing zucchini when they came in, and Clint had slid up to kiss him from behind automatically. The archer had gotten an elbow for his trouble and a "Not while I'm slicing, Clint," before Phil had put the knife down and captured his (apparent) partner for a proper greeting. Caroline had smiled at the couple's affection and headed for the laundry to retrieve her 'Tuesday go to Courthouse' shell.

Setting the target down, Phil opened his tablet and pulled up the database from the range at Headquarters. "Ah. He didn't." He brought the tablet over to the stove where Clint was now cooking the prosciutto. "Which is a relief, because from the looks of things, you'd have been safer standing in front of her than behind her today."

Clint turned the heat down to keep the prosciutto from scorching and took the tablet. "Not time of day: she's been at the range at this time of day before and done fine." He tabbed over to the 'clock in – clock out' table for Monday. "She got out of the office at a reasonable hour yesterday; I guess she could have pulled an all-nighter."

"If this morning was her in court after an all-nighter, then we need to think about moving her to a schedule synchronized to Deimos, the Martian moon." Phil muttered, "she could get a lot done with a 30 hour day."

"The lighting is the same. It's the same gun, it's the same load…"

Caroline came in, Clint's t-shirt in her hand and courtroom shell back on. She set the t-shirt down on the counter next to a bowl of carrot sticks, looked at the target and said, "Wow, that is really craptastic." Phil looked at her for a moment, then reached over the counter and pulled her glasses off. "Uhm, Phil? Kind of need those to see."

Phil looked through the glasses, winced, and handed them to Clint in exchange for getting his tablet back. "No kidding."

Clint put the glasses at arms length and then muttered. "Ow. That actually hurts. How the hell do you function?"

"Contacts." Caroline answered, reaching to take her glasses back. "Had to take mine out a while back." Phil took them from Clint. "What is this, keepaway?"

"Ooh, are we playing keepaway?" Tony came into the kitchen with a glass in his hand. Phil handed him the glasses and Tony set his drink down. "Yuck. No, apparently we're playing 'how badly can you scratch up optical lenses before you actually break the'," he waved the glasses in his fingers, gauging their weight, "'plastic.'" He looked at Caroline for a moment, who was attempting to glare at all three of them. This was made difficult by the fact that she could only see vaguely-human shaped blurs, and distinguishing between which blur had her glasses was actually impossible. "I have actually made better lenses while talking to Jarvis in my sleep."

Clint removed the prosciutto from the pan and reached for the olive oil. "Someone hand Counselor Magoo her glasses back so she can press some garlic for me. I need three cloves crushed, please, and another three sliced, Phil."

Tony held the glasses up so Caroline could make out the outline of his hand holding them, moving them toward her. "Tell me when they actually focus." He stopped when he got six inches away from her head. "Seriously, tell me."

"I will. You're not there yet. Try another two inches. Oh, God, I can't believe I just said that." She pinched the bridge of her nose."Here." she moved her hand about three and a half inches away from her nose and managed to swipe the glasses from Tony's hand. "Yes, I make moles look like snipers. Is there something so mundane as an apron in here?"

"Nah, just use my shirt." Clint answered.

"Thanks." Caroline stripped the shell off, ignoring Tony's wolf-whistle, and pulled Clint's shirt back over her tank top before she put the glasses back on. She folded the shell and set it on the table.

"I'm a little more curious about why their strength is so far off what you need." Tony said, leaning his hip against the counter and fidgeting with his drink.

"They're not, really. I only got 'em in '08…"

"Uhm, nooo," Tony retorted, "They really _are._ "

"…and they're still fine, even for driving." She started pulling drawers and cabinets open, looking for the garlic and garlic press.

"Great." Clint started sautéing the onions. "And when someone goes for you while you're wearing the glasses?"

"I'm fully confident that my inherent ability to trip over my own feet and bump into solid objects will screw with their aim." Caroline didn't get her hand clear of the cabinet door she was closing: it caught her fingers. "Ow. Case in point." She shook it ruefully. "Also, lawyer. Stuff like this morning is about as exciting as it gets."

Clint shook his head, sliding the onions around in the pan and muttered, "This ought to be interesting."

"Hearing's just fine, Clint. What ought to be interesting?" Caroline finally found the garlic and popped six cloves off.

"You versus the forces of nature that mess with our lives on a regular basis."

"Can't be that much more surreal than having to explain Ikea-hacks to Captain America over coffee in my kitchen." She started peeling the garlic. "The contacts expire, like drugs, and so do the prescriptions for them, so I have to keep those updated. I also just won 5 grand off you, Tony, so I'm getting new ones tomorrow, right after I file an estimated tax form and send a check for $1,400 off to the IRS. Jarvis, where's the garlic press?" The relevant drawer helpfully turned blue, and Caroline pulled out the garlic press. "Thank you."

Phil fist bumped the air and said, "Hah. I win the office pool." He picked the knife back up.

"Oh?" Caroline passed 3 cloves of garlic to Phil for slicing, and then peeled her own three.

"Well, Robbie Burr in your department went out on a limb and took 'envelope also contains receipts for bail payment, and Stark is not to be trusted with such.' I heard the 'change' bit, and I know Stark's luck at cards." The tapping noise Phil's knife made while he sliced the garlic punctuated his speech.

"Sorry. That was a 'there's an office pool? What's it over this time?' 'oh,' not a 'What was your bet in the pool?' 'oh,' Phil." Caroline explained, opening cabinets, trying to remember where she'd seen a bowl.

Clint glanced at her. "Left," he reminded her. He reached up into a cabinet next to the stove, grabbed a Pyrex bowl and handed it to her.

"Hand strengthening through culinary prep work. Got it." She pressed the first half clove, and asked, "Phil, what prompted the office pool?"

Tony snagged some of the carrot sticks from the pile sitting out on the counter and tapped the kitchen table twice. Google popped up in a window and he Googled headlines for himself for the last 8 hours. "Probably this." He tapped the table again and the search results projected up where everyone could see.

**END OF THE PEPPERONY PARTY?** POTTS-STARK SPLITSVILLE

**STARK'S GIRL TUESDAY**

**STARK TOWER SEX SCANDAL**

**KING TONY'S NEW QUEEN!**

All of the headlines featured Tony handing Caroline the envelope full of money on the courtroom steps.

Caroline looked at the picture and headlines. "Well, fuck."

Phil sighed and reached for his phone.

 

*~*~*

 

Dinner didn't get much less surreal after that.

Steve wandered into the kitchen shortly after the discovery of the tabloisphere explosion and cleared everything off the table before setting it. He handed Caroline her backpack, suit jacket and shell with a "Stick it in the hall, it'll be out of the way there," pulled salad out of the fridge and took the bread Clint handed him from the oven.

"It's food," Clint called.

Tony came in from where he'd wandered off to with a tablet in his hand. "Caroline, your neighborhood's being over-run." Steve plucked the tablet out of his hand and set it on the top of the cookbook bookshelf. "Hey, using that."

"Not at the table," Bruce reminded Tony, sitting down and putting salad on his plate.

Phil hung up his phone, washed his hands and sat down. "I'm afraid Tony's right. The 61st precinct has asked for crowd control backup from the 63rd, 60th, and from the Harbor Patrol." He took the bread basket, passed it to Clint and accepted the salad from Natasha.

"This is over the photographs from this morning?" Natasha asked.

"Apparently I'm a threat to Mr. Stark and Ms Potts' relationship." Caroline answered. "Which is amusing in that I can only imagine two women I'd be less happy to have made an enemy of."

"Natasha and…?"

"My great-aunt Harriet."

Tony looked at Clint. "Changed my mind. _That's_ the next story I'm going to want."

"I'm so sorry about this." Steve said. "I had no idea that this was going to get so… complicated."

"What exactly were you doing out there, anyway?" Bruce asked.

"Well, you see, there's this school…" Steve began.

Caroline glared at him. "Steve. If you tell them what actually happened, they can and _will_ be called to testify about _what you told them._ "

Steve shut up.

"So, there's this elementary school over in Harlem," Caroline began, "which _might,_ from a traffic management perspective be less than ideally located."

Steve picked up the hint. "And I might have run by it a few times while out jogging, and might have noticed that there aren't crosswalks in the neighborhood."

"Hypothetically," Caroline continued, "someone who regularly visited the neighborhood might also have noticed that some of the stores were allowing their sidewalk displays to spill over into the handicapped ramps."

"Hypothetically, a regular visitor might also notice that a large number of properties owned by the same landlord didn't have properly maintained fire escapes, and fire doors that were chained shut." Steve concluded. "And, if one were hypothetically concerned about these potential situations, they might communicate their concerns to the property owners. First with notes left in mailboxes, and then, eventually, having noticed things getting worse at the school as the mornings got darker, with messages left in washable sidewalk paint."

"It might even have been red white and blue washable sidewalk paint." Caroline added. "And in order to make sure such hypothetical messages were understandable, our hypothetical visitor might have made sure to use his or her best Palmer method copperplate to let the city know that 'a crosswalk is needed here.' And that 'blocking access to handicapped ramps is a violation of the Americans with Disabilities Act.' Or, possibly, that 'if this fire escape is not fixed, someone is going to get hurt.'"

"Socially responsible graffiti," Bruce mused. "that's got to be a first. What happened to the chain on the fire doors?"

"Our hypothetical visitor might have ripped them off and left them at the owners' home." Caroline said.

"In Greenwich." Steve added. "They might have been twisted around his gaudy, puffed up, faux Calder, imitation iron gates. And the links might have been twisted together requiring bolt cutters and welding torches to separate them. A note might have been left saying 'A present from 133rd street.'"

"And last night?" Natasha asked. Caroline looked puzzled. "I didn't get into town until noon: by that time, it was all over but the shouting. And the paparazzi. Could someone pass the salt?"

Tony reached across the table to set it near Natasha's hand.

"And last night I was…" Steve looked at Caroline, who filled in.

"Walking around our fair city as _any_ citizen might wish to do, at any time, enjoying the architecture of the Upper West Side by night,"

"When officers arrested me, alleging that I was painting graffiti near PS 447."

"So why did you have pallete knives in the bag?" Clint asked.

"I was, actually, planning on painting the sun coming up over the bridges." Steve answered. "The police did not believe me when I informed them of this."

"Which is how I got the fourth entry in this week's competition for 'most bizarre lawsuit.' The city suing Captain America for _obstructing justice_ has got it all over 'Hawkeye's grappling arrow caused a microscopic scratch in the faux marble façade and destroyed my reputation.'"

"And kicked off the next office pool: 'what tag would Captain America use,' and is how IT-Dave got caught in legal's new copier today." Phil added.

"Legal got a new copier?" Clint asked.

"Robbie hijacked it from Operations Tech Development." Caroline answered. "They were willing to let it stay in exchange for a case of paper and a player to be named later." She noticed Tony looking particularly hard at the pepper grinder near her: she passed it over the table and set it near his water glass.

"How come we didn't get that offer?" Phil asked. "Fury still wants Matthias back."

"They snagged Matthias? Matthias from reception Matthias?" Natasha asked.

"And with the light brown hair and the voice you could listen to reading the phone book, yep." Caroline answered. "And you didn't get that offer, Phil, because Matthias is a saint and handles Fabian's group, which has eased some of his bitching." She looked at Phil. "Am I going to be able to go home tonight, or should I find a hotel?"

"Neither," Tony said. "They'll assume you're spending the night, anyway. If you're going to be stuck with the madness that is the Fourth Estate's obsession with my personal life, you might as well get the perks. Guest room's that way. Kind of basic, but it's got the bare necessities." He waved toward the hall.

Caroline looked toward where he waved. "Thanks?"

"Notice how she makes it a question," Bruce said to Steve.

"недоверие - мать безопасности" Natasha retorted.

"Sorry?" Steve asked.

"Disbelief is the mother of safety." Caroline translated for him. "Could someone pass the water, please?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Wednesday morning**

"Good morning, Ms. Lakehurst. The time is now 5:30, and the temperature is 64 degrees Fahrenheit with 84% humidity and scattered clouds. Today's forecast calls for partly to mostly cloudy, with a high of 72 degrees. Would you care for the headlines?" The curtains pulled back from the floor-to-ceiling window, allowing pre-dawn twilight to seep in.

Caroline startled awake as Jarvis spoke, then relaxed back under the down comforter, on to the over-the-top Vividus bed and 800 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets that Tony Stark apparently considered 'bare necessities.' "Thanks, Jarvis. I thought I asked for 5?"

Jarvis replied, "You asked for 'a time so I can catch a couple hours on the dissertation and make work by 8:30; five or something,'" Caroline startled a bit when Jarvis played her own voice back at her, "last night, when you came to bed. By my calculations, you will be able to leave the Tower at 8 and easily arrive at SHIELD by 8:30."

"Right, Manhattan, sorry, forgot. Thanks, Jarvis. Could you stream Morning Edition, please?" Caroline sat up and reached for her glasses. She picked them up and found the lenses had been replaced, the earpieces tightened, the screws, pad arms and nose pads replaced. A Post-it was stuck to them with a note reading 'Compliments of Stark Industries' in Tony's block print. She put them on: the prescription had been updated. She decided that throwing a righteous fit over hacking her Costco account could wait until after a shower and coffee. _Especially_ until after a shower, since she'd be wearing yesterday's clothes.

When she'd stumbled to bed the previous night, half cross-eyed from computer screens and reeling from the snark of the evening's cutthroat Uno game audible clear across the building in Tony's library, she'd taken the time to notice the WC and brush her teeth. The opulence of the bathroom was expected: This was, after all, _Tony Stark's_ guest bedroom. 

What she didn't notice until she was out of the shower, swathed in a ridiculously thick robe and went looking for a hair-dryer was that there was a separate dressing room and a closet attached to the bath. The wide array of hair products sitting on the dressing table was dizzying. The choice of cosmetics was downright terrifying.

She wasn't sure that she could even _identify_ some of the items, much less use them.

Then again, the tabloids had not been off-target in highlighting his past tendency toward having a different girl sharing each meal of the week. Given his past, buying cosmetics in bulk had probably been a simple cost-minimizing move.

Caroline hoped that the cost-minimization stretched to stocking an iron in suite. If not, well, the robe would provide sufficient cover for her to return to the laundry. Hair dry, she opened the door to what she assumed was a reach-in closet, and gawked.

The closet was a walk-in roughly the size of her bedroom.

And it had been stocked with clothes.

Caroline reached out and brushed her hand against the sleeve of an ivory blouse with French cuffs hanging near the door. She gingerly pulled the hanger down and took a look at the label.

Definitely not something that had just been left by other visitors. She'd seen Pepper Potts and Jane Foster, and she'd just had dinner with Natasha Romanov. She'd also seen the playboy-era footage of Tony Stark.

There was no way anyone who wore her own 12 / 14 had ever set foot in this part of the building, much less stayed long enough to bring a change of clothes.

"Jarvis," she said, her voice sharp, "tell me these weren't purchased just for me."

"Very well, Ms. Lakehurst. These weren't purchased just for you."

"I should have used a direct interrogatory, shouldn't I."

"I am programmed to comply with all reasonable requests of Sir's housemates and guests."

"I can't deal with this without coffee." She muttered. She found the cheapest looking articles – a pair of sweat pants and a Stark Industries t-shirt, and pulled the dresser drawer open because while she was probably going to have to either kill or ask Phil to arrest Tony Stark today, at least she'd be able to do it in clean underwear.

She inhaled the first cup of coffee: by the time she finished her second at 5:55, Caroline had worked out a solution for her wardrobe dispute. She turned to the more urgent matter of working on the dissertation and opened Bruce's loaner laptop on the kitchen table. She found the absence of her upstairs neighbors (the Ozerovs) daily pre-dawn orgy remarkably conducive to her concentration.

The resulting absorption was such that she missed the chime of the elevator and half jumped out of her seat when Steve spoke to her from the kitchen.

"I'm usually the only one up at this hour around here." Steve said, refilling his water bottle at the sink.

Caroline squawked. She found her hand going for the gun she'd automatically strapped on after dressing. She might be in the most secure residential building in the Western Hemisphere, but the reason it was that secure was because it had a history of being attacked by aliens. 

"Whoa. Relax. Just me. Great reaction, but really. Relax." Steve, too was wearing sweats and a Stark Industries shirt under a reflective Sam Browne belt, sneakers on his feet. He sat down next to Caroline and set his water bottle on the table.

"You _really_ don’t make any noise, do you?" Caroline took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and relaxed. She saved her file, just so she had something to do.

"I try to keep it down: like I said, I'm usually the only one up at this hour around here. Unless you're _still_ up, which is a different matter entirely, and we'll be having a conversation about how badly sleep deprivation and firearms combine." He nudged her coffee cup out of her reach. " _Are_ you still up?"

"No." 

"Jarvis, is Ms. Lakehurst lying?"

"Bite me, Rogers."

"No, Captain Rogers, Ms. Lakehurst is not lying: she retired last night at 10, and arose at 5:30"

Caroline looked from the coffee to Steve and back to the coffee. "You want to remember that I'm the one that’s hopefully going to be keeping you out of a 1 year jail term and pass that coffee back now, Captain?"

"Sure." He passed it back. "Sorry, when someone's at the table at this hour, it's usually Tony, and he's usually trying to remember how silverware works."

"Fully functional adult, you know." Caroline sipped. "Steady job, pay my rent on auto-debit, even got a Costco membership."

"A what?"

She blinked. "No one's taken you to Costco yet?"

"No…"

"Good God. I'm surprised that the earth still spins on its axis. You not knowing about Costco is like, I don't know, those damn badgers speaking Morse Code. It's just… wrong. Got lunch plans?"

"No…"

"Fine, I'll take you to it, then. We've got to sit down to plan the defense anyway; if you're free, stop by my office at 11. In the meantime, I promise," she held her hand up in a scout-salute "that I have slept, even slept _in,_ thanks to the friendly neighborhood AI being good with Manhattan traffic, am planning on eating shortly, and am even still on time."

"Glad to hear it." Steve flashed the devastating 'buy war bonds!' grin as he stood up and headed out of the kitchen.

And into Tony's bedroom.

"Well, then." Caroline mused, "That does explain why Tony wasn't concerned about Ms. Potts' reaction yesterday." She set her bare feet on the cold wood floor to shock her brain back on to the dissertation and out of the gutter (where it was blocking her periscope view).

Around a quarter past seven, Steve and Tony emerged from their bedroom together. Tony's lips looked a little redder and puffier than Caroline was used to seeing, and Steve looked ridiculously smug. 

Caroline looked back at the laptop and hit save. "This space is about to be completely overrun by people, isn't it."

"Not completely, but certainly invaded." Tony answered.

"There's usually at least three of us," Steve added, starting toast, pulling orange juice and cut cantaloupe out of the fridge

"Then I should decamp to the library; I want to see if I can get this bit finished before work today." She closed the screen of the laptop and stood up, tucking the seat back under the table.

"Good luck with that," Tony said, sitting down with his own mug. He double-tapped the table, looked at it for a moment, and then tapped a pink, box-shaped icon.

"Thanks," Caroline answered, picking up the laptop.

Steve fixed her with a look, snapped his fingers, and pointed back at the seat.

"You're a little tall for Cesar Milan, Steve."

He looked at Tony. "Cesar Milan?"

"Short, Mexican dog trainer. Has an incredibly popular dog training show: Phil's a big fan. You and Milan have the same ideas about pack leadership." Tony answered, sipping his coffee and flipping pages. He looked back at Caroline. "I meant good luck with the decamping. He's got this obsession with making sure we eat: something about maximizing field effectiveness."

"We just had this discussion about my functional adulthood, Steve. Costco?" Caroline said. "Also, bear in mind that unlike everyone else in this condo on steroids, I have a full time _desk_ job. And for the past 24 hours, I've been pretty much 'mostly sedentary.' I only just got my morning and evening walks back, and missed those yesterday. How," she asked, turning to Tony, "do you manage to live with someone who's a personification of the Five Ps on steroids?" 

"Past performance does not predict future results." Tony answered without looking up. "Also, poor plan with the rant: you've given him enough time to get in range." He tilted his head toward Steve, who had taken advantage of her exchange with Tony to get close enough to pull the laptop out of her arms. Steve put it in the same spot he'd set Tony's tablet the night before: at the top of the bookshelf, a good two feet above Caroline's head.

She looked from Steve to the bookshelf and crossed her arms over her chest. Tony boggled at the cleavage: Steve seemed unmoved. "You know, I feel _certain_ that abusing your height in this manner is a violation of the UN Convention on Human Rights."

"Good thing the US is not a signatory, then." Steve answered, cheerfully. "You can have it back after breakfast." He pulled her seat back out and squired her back into it before going back to the kitchen and pulling out a frying pan.

Tony tapped the table again. "Have the paper." He flipped a copy of the _New York Times_ to her part of the screen, where it popped open on the table surface.

She pulled up the crossword and muttered, "How did this become my life?"

"Words I have asked myself daily for four years, now." Tony answered, sipping his coffee and pouring through the _Financial Times._

Now that Caroline had gotten herself out of the habit of the daily bagel stop (breakfast and lunch in one quick acquisition), breakfast had frequently been a bowl of cereal or a Kashi bar, followed by a dash to the subway. When lunch wasn't a desk-top repeat of breakfast, it tended to happen at the Russian table in the SHIELD cafeteria (run under Natasha's deceptively soft velvet glove), or the occasional salad that came with a lunch meeting.

Apparently breakfast in the Stark-Rogers household was a multi-course affair. It began with fruit, fruit juice, water, coffee, and toast. These were followed by eggs, vegetarian bacon, turkey sausage, and a third course of buckwheat waffles from scratch rounded the meal out.

Caroline started looking at her watch when the eggs started, after the toast hit the table. "Have you got something as mundane as peanut butter in this skyscraper?" She asked Tony.

"Cabinet to the right of the sink." He answered. "How the hell did Hardware House _not_ get good research on mandatory Chinese export - import tariffs? No wonder they're shutting their retail down."

"How is that not a violation of the terms of China's World Trade Organization membership?" Caroline asked, getting up and crossing to the relevant cabinet. She snagged the Costco-sized jar of Jiff. "Okay, _someone_ here goes to Costco: how does Steve not know about its existence?"

Tony looked up. "You don't know about Costco?"

"Not before Caroline mentioned a membership in it as a badge of functional adulthood. I'm told that lunch will be enlightening."

"You're taking him to Costco for lunch? I'm totally coming along."

"You realize this would do nothing to ease the press frenzy?" Caroline asked, sitting down with the PB and applying it to her toast. "And again, WTO?"

"Really not certain." Tony answered. "What I do know is that I'm glad I'm not so cheap that I send production over there. Canada, sure. Mexico, occasionally. Belgium, _all_ the time: they've got this family that does some really, really awesome metal-forging designs. Flexible, too: they didn't even blink when I shut down weapons – just pitched a line of satellite switches. But China? I remember when state owned enterprises were a really, really common thing."

"And incredibly inefficient." Caroline agreed. "Shocking how quickly grain production went up when they did away with the collectives, isn't it."

"Is it?" Steve asked.

Tony fixed Caroline with a look usually reserved for bots that had developed unexpected skills. "Wait. You're what, 28?"

"Bless you. 35. I _do_ remember the Soviet Union. Phil tells me it's one of the reasons they handed you to me. Or me to you, I can't really tell which it is right now." Caroline answered, cutting a cube of cantaloupe into smaller chunks. 

"I still think you should have to deal with my car registrations," Tony's tone was petulant, but he was smiling.

 

"Your emissions are your own problem, Stark." Tony snorted coffee out his nose, and Caroline felt vindicated for the glasses.

Caroline finished the KenKen and Crossword and turned to the _Times_ front page. There she was with Tony, Steve Rogers, Happy Hogan, and an envelope full of money changing hands. She sighed as she finished her peanut butter toast. "Jarvis, time?" 

"7:45, Ms. Lakehurst."

Caroline shook her head. "This is not going to be a good day." As if on cue, the phone screamed "I've given up!!!" and began playing Linkin Park in its holster on her gun belt.

Tony's jaw dropped: so did his his coffee mug. Steve caught it before it hit the table and set it down.

Caroline sighed, picked up the phone and said, "Thanks for the breakfast, Steve. Be in my office at 11 today." She winced before answering. "Hi, Mom."

Phil knocked on the guest room door 20 minutes later as she was trying to get her mother to hang up so Caroline could get her shoes and socks on and get out the door. She pulled the door open, mobile sandwiched between ear and shoulder. Phil tapped his watch, and she held up one finger.

"Mom. Mom. Mom. _Yes,_ Mom, I know. Yes, that _was_ Bob's bomber jacket. Well, yes, it did go home with Captain Rogers, but since…" She stopped herself from saying '…I did too,' but only just, "…since he was dropped off first, I got it back then. Tell Dad it's right here with me, I promise. Mom, look, are you in the lab all day?" She waited, sitting down on the bed and juggling phone and socks in a practiced manner. "Good. Let me call you back this afternoon or evening at home, then, okay? I have _got_ to get out the door, or I'm going to be late. Yeah." She paused. "Love you too, Mom. Talk to you later." She hung up the phone with a sigh of relief, and put the mobile back into its holster, yanked the other sock on shoved her feet in her shoes.

"Everything all right?" Phil asked mildly.

" _Tell_ me we have a guide to managing conversations like that." She said, smoothing the comforter out where she'd made the bed.

"We do. It's in the part of the HR manual that you got sent with your re-assignment, under 'S' for 'Stark raving parents: welcome to the madness of working with the Avengers.'" He answered, leading her into the hall. "Press is only six deep outside the Tower today, and three deep at the office: got sunglasses?"

"Six deep is an improvement?" She patted the exterior pockets of her backpack. "And no on the sunglasses."

"No problem." Phil pulled open the drawer of the side table in the hall next to the elevator door and surveyed the 25 or so options. He passed her a pair. "Try these."

She put on the dark, metal framed sunglasses and shook her head to gauge the fit. "We're good."

"Then let's go; I'm supposed to be in Fury's office in 45 minutes."

*~*~*

Despite her mother's best efforts, Caroline managed to get into the office at her usual 8:30. This, she concluded, was one of the main advantages to taking a commute from an hour down to fifteen minutes. They split for their own offices. Caroline hung the bomber jacket in her closet, pulled out her back-up set of office clothes, changed, pulled a Fed Ex-style medium box out of the supply closet, and the paper copy of the morning's _Times_ out of the break room. She clipped the picture of her and Tony, circled her part of it, and added a bright green arrow pointing at it, with a caption on a Post-It that read, "Thanks for the glasses, but not curly or red-haired." Then she paperclipped a check payable to Stark Industries to the clipping. She folded the black pants and white shirt from the Tower, gently wrapped them in tissue paper, and tucked the clipping, Post-It and check into the neckline of the shirt.

Then she called a messenger to have it delivered back to Stark Tower.

She was quite surprised when Reception called to tell her there was a messenger for her downstairs within three minutes of her call. It should have taken the courier service at least 20 minutes to arrive, but she wasn't going to look a gift bicyclist in the mouth. She picked the parcel up and took it down to the lobby with her.

The messenger was from the DA's office.

Caroline found this freakishly efficient. She accepted the papers, signed for their receipt, handed the messenger a fifty from what she was now calling the Stark Stash, got a receipt from him and called back her courier service to cancel.

She got as far as the door to her office when Ken Pollard grabbed her and demanded to know what was up with the previous day's scores (which Clint had logged in). She opened her desk drawer, dropped the papers in, and pulled out the new glasses. "Let's find out."

Ken was remarkably squeamish about her popping her contacts out right there at her desk. The glasses fit perfectly (of course), and the new lenses felt about 90% lighter than the old pair's. 

She was annoyed to find that her accuracy rate had improved dramatically.

Under Robbie Burr's twinset and pearls clad iron fist, Daily Staff meetings now finished in 40 minutes or less. Caroline was back at her desk at 11, and opened the paperwork from the DA.

"That looks nasty," Bob said, coming out of the closet and looking over her shoulder. He looked much as he had in life: tall, white haired, bushy eyebrowed, blue eyed, and wearing a golf shirt and khakis. "When did this _Berghuis_ matter take place?"

"2010," Caroline answered. "Modifies _Miranda:_ the person under arrest now needs to _say_ they're exercising their right to remain silent and that they won't speak to the cops without an attorney present."

"Must be boring, hearing that all the time."

 

"You'd think, but you know Casper's Corollary: 'no amount of money, knowledge or manpower can equal the person you're looking for being stupid.' And an awful lot of people are stupid." She looked at the next document. "But I rather doubt that Steve Rogers is one of them. Which means that there are shenanigans going on here."

Steve knocked on her open door as he walked through and passed his ID over the card-swipe lock. "Uhm, Caroline?" He asked, "who are you talking to?"

"Dead Bob." She answered, without looking up from the papers the DA had sent over.

"As opposed to Live Bob?" He sat down carefully. He'd found that if he wasn't paying attention when he sat, then he hit the seat just a little too quickly, breaking the chair, and ended up on his ass on the floor.

"As opposed to Ex Bob, about whom I do not speak." Caroline answered. "I've mentioned Dead Bob before: he was my Godfather? The one that would start haunting my hall closet again?"

"Fracked up beyond all recognition, I remember now. Do you often talk to the dead?"

"Well, it seems rude not to answer them when they start the conversation." Caroline answered. "Right. We appear to have a discrepancy." She laid out the paperwork and tapped one of the packets. "The police are saying you consented to the search."

"I didn't."

"Yeah, they disagree. 'When asked if there was anything dangerous in the bag, Mr. Rogers said "no."' Is that what you actually said?"

"No. When they asked if there was anything dangerous in the bag I said 'I don't consent to a search of my bag.' I told you I remembered my lines. I'm _known_ for remembering my lines."

"Okay," Caroline answered, making a note reading 'USO tour SGR lines' on her tablet. "Where were you when they asked this?"

Steve thought for a moment, and looked at debris on Caroline's desk. "May I?"

"Sure."

He pulled the tape dispenser, box of Kleenex, a pen, Caroline's mobile, and a few paperclips over. "Squad car, building, me, other building, cops." He tapped each item in turn. 

She passed another couple of pens over, and said "curb and where you were putting out the crosswalk notice."

"Thanks." He put the pens out where needed, then put 'his' pen and paperclips in front of the tape dispenser. "I was cuffed, the bag was on the hood, and we were all right in front of the squad car."

"Okay. You told me yesterday," She took the tablet and opened her transcription of the notes, "that you refused consent to search, and they opened the bag, found your spare clip - your sidearm was on your person, naturally - your art gear, etcetera. And then they say that you resisted arrest. How did that happen?"

"They tried to pull me to the back of the car."

"Okay, and...?"

"I wasn't sure what they wanted, so I held my ground. Then one of them said 'Get in the damn car,' and I went with them to get in the car."

"Got it." Caroline said, and grinned. "That image is going to stick with me all day. Thank you. Now, back to the bag thing." She said, tapping the tape dispenser. "You were in full view of the dash?"

Steve thought for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah. They weren’t letting me move around too much."

"And which way were you facing when they asked you about your bag?"

"Perpendicular. Sideways to the hood."

"And the cops were in front of you?"

"Face on."

"Anyone else around the scene?"

Steve thought. "Someone on a fire escape of the building across the street. I was speaking loudly enough that they probably heard me. I heard them say, 'for crying out loud, he's _right,_ they do need a crosswalk there!!'"

Caroline steepled her fingers and drummed them together. "Exxxxcellent." Her grin was slightly scarier than Red Skull's. 

Steve looked blankly at her. 

"You haven't seen much of 'The Simpsons,' yet, have you."

He shook his head.

"We'll see if we can pick some up at Costco." Her phone buzzed, and she picked up. "Yeah, Dave." She squinched her eyes closed and put her hand to the bridge of her nose. "Yeah, that's probably me. I'll get on it this afternoon. Thanks." She hung up and looked at Steve. "The tiles in the cafeteria have transformed into a _Dance Dance Revolution_ floor. Suspicion is falling on Tony."

Steve smiled and tucked his hands in his pockets. "Can't imagine why."

"Really? Seems kind of 20th century for him: my money's on Renselear. They got stood up by Fabian – you know, that guy in my department who his nose stuck so far in the air that Jarvis has to check for it whenever Iron Man takes off? – in July and again last month. IP licensing negotiations now go to Jordan."

"Is this good?"

Caroline waggled a hand in the air, typing an e-mail. "Jordan can be relied upon to show up when she says she will, but her negotiations tend to lack that cut-throat _je ne sais quoi._ " She sent the e-mail and folded up the papers from the DA. "Right, lunch. Witnesses. Got your metro card?" She checked her backpack, making sure her tablet stayed in the office, but that she had a ballpoint, business cards, and a clean legal pad.

Steve blinked. "Yes," he said, "but are you supposed to be going out?"

"Ken cleared me to go back to walking our fair city. Got a note and everything." She pulled the note out of her ID wallet and passed it over. A SHIELD logo memo-pad read 'her new glasses are fine; she can go out unescorted again.' It was signed by Ken Pollard, the range master.

"Okay, but I was thinking of the press."

"Hmm. Good question." She pulled up the live feed off the building's external cameras. "If we went out the front, we'd have trouble, but we're going out for the E train. So long as we use the 50th street exit, it'll be fine."

*~*~*

Although Costco did not, actually, have any seasons of the Simpsons available for sale, the reassuringly normal trip (E train to Lexington Ave, M15 up to Harlem) actually was fine. No one recognized them, Steve was relieved to find that there was somewhere he could clothes that vaguely resembled what he thought of as 'normal,' and the hot dogs actually smelled like what he remembered from Coney Island. He ordered four, and doctored each one differently. The look on his face as he bit into the first (mustard and onions) was akin to the bliss Caroline had seen in DaVinci's "Virgin on the Rocks." He later admitted that the freshly chopped onions were especially perfect. 

Outside the mall containing the Costco, Steve snapped his fingers. "Got it. Washburn Wire."

"Geseundheit?"

"What used to be here: Washburn Wire Factory." 

"Really?" she asked. "What was it like?"

He thought for a moment. "They were building it when I was a kid: someone set fire to the place in 1917. Had this huge loading dock on the river – they always had at least one ship tied up there, loading finished wire or unloading steel." They stopped at a red light, and he added, "people thought of it as a 'good' company to work for. It was dangerous work – they did barbed wire, and there was a good chance of getting hurt on the job. There were strikes – heck, there were strikes everywhere – but management was willing to deal with unions, was willing to hire someone new to the country, encouraged people to become citizens, to keep their kids in school." The light turned green and they crossed. "Any idea what happened?"

Caroline shrugged. "No idea. Not a native."

"Well, I knew you weren't native to Brighton Beach as soon as you opened your mouth." Steve said with a smile. 

"No, I mean, not native to New York. I didn't come here until law school." 

"Oh." They got to Fifth Avenue and turned left. "So, where are you from?"

"Lots of different places. DC more than most. Double-academic household: once Mom found a tenured slot, they had to come up with a tenure-track job for Dad, or one that would let him work in field. That was when I was about nine."

"Tenure," Steve said, "that’s where they can't fire you, right?"

"Theoretically. It's more of a 'permanent so long as you behave yourself and make us look good.'"

"Same as anywhere else, then." He grinned. "What do they teach?"

"Mom's a virologist at Georgetown, Dad's a statistician. DC was handy – they were gearing up for the 1990 census, so he worked for the Census Bureau and then Bureau of Labor and Statistics. Ended up at American University." They turned left on to 109th street. Steve's eyes narrowed a little, taking in some of the signs of the times: the battered playground in the middle of the King Towers, the less-than-socially-responsible graffiti, the boarded up stores. He started to move to put himself between Caroline and the buildings, and she murmured very, very quietly, "it's broad daylight, Steve. Even in Harlem. And I shoot left."

He sighed and moved back to her right. "Not happy, here."

"We can cross at the next light." 

"Thanks."

A few blocks later they arrived at the school. There wasn't a crosswalk in front of it, and the 'Crosswalk Needed Here 'was still on the pavement. Caroline took her phone out and took a picture of it, checking she could get the entire notice in one frame. She nodded, then looked around. 

"Right. Four storeys, call it seven apartments facing the street on each floor. Where'd you hear the witness?"

Steve stood in front of the entrance to the school, turned his right side to it, and closed his eyes. Then he pointed. "That one."

"You said it was from the fire escape?"

He nodded. 

"Any idea how high?"

"Not really. I was a little distracted by the handcuffs."

Caroline shrugged, conceding the point. "Right. Let's go find the super."

*~*~*

Stanley Bryant had been the super at the New Park View Apartments of 106th and Lenox (no park view, and at 50 years old, not overly 'new') for 15 years, ever since Karl Williams had retired and moved down to Florida. He looked at the ridiculously All American couple in front of him, and said "Little pasty for this neighborhood, aren't you? Anyway, there's no vacancies."

"Oh, we're not looking for a rental," Caroline said, smiling and producing a business card. "I'm an attorney for Captain Rogers, here: I'm hoping we could ask you some questions about the incident across the street last night."

"Incident?" Stanley asked.

"The graffiti across the street." Caroline explained.

"Oh." Stanley said, thinking about it. This took a while: he liked finishing a thought before he said anything. "Well, it's pretty. You don't see handwriting like that anymore."

"I'm sure the artist would appreciate that sentiment." Steve said.

"I'm sure," Caroline concurred, pleased that Steve had figured out the use of the conditional to cover himself. "So you weren't awake when the police made their arrest?"

Stanley thought for a moment, then asked. "Whenabouts was that?"

"Two-ish." Caroline answered.

"No, I was asleep then."

"Of course." Caroline said. "How about some of your tenants?"

" Well, I'm sure some of them were awake." He thought through the tenants for a moment, counting them silently on his fingers, floor by floor. "The Wrights have a new baby: she's been having colic. Browns have been complaining, but what can you do about a cranky baby?"

"Not much," Steve said. "Anyone else?"

"Not sure." Stanley answered.

"Okay, then." Caroline said. "How about the folks on the 106th street side of the building? Any of them keep late-ish hours?"

Stanley counted tenants again. "Gandhi. Up on third. He's a bartender, comes in about then. Has a roommate, but they're not together, if you follow."

Caroline nodded. "I do. Whose name is on the lease?"

"The roommate's."

"His name?" 

"Hell. I never can remember. Short, cranky guy. Red hair. What’s his name, my dad used to listen to his records, he had a band, played with that guy, with the," he held his hands up in front of him as if holding a tube, twiddled his fingers, "squeaky black tube thing, wooden thingy at the top."

"Oboe?" Caroline asked.

"No, no, it's a single reed." Stanley said. "They were big in the war…"

"Miller?" Steve asked.

Stanley snapped his fingers. "That's the one."

Caroline smiled. "Which apartment are they in, Mr. Bryant?"

Caroline figured out the 'Gandhi' part of the super's ID of the second tenant of apartment 320 when he pulled the apartment door open. He shoved a hand through his short, black hair and his eyes narrowed when he looked at Steve. 

"It's hump day," he muttered, "and now there's this. Figures." He stepped back and opened the door a little further: not enough for Steve or Caroline to come in, but enough so they weren't talking through a crack.

"You'd be Mr. Miller's roommate?" Caroline asked.

"Yeah. Ted Iyer." He extended his hand.

Caroline shook it and offered her card. "Caroline Lakehurst. I'm Capt. Rogers' lawyer."

Ted tucked the card in the back pocket of his jeans without looking at it, staring at Steve in disbelief. “Jesus, you’re one stubborn son of a bitch. You’re actually _fighting_ the charges? Do you have anything against taking a plea bargain?”

“I do when they’re violating my civil liberties, yes.” Steve answered. “Can we talk to you?”

“Do I have any way of stopping you?”

Caroline shrugged. “You could close the door in our faces. But then we’d have to go get a subpoena, and that’s just a pain. It’s not going to take long.”

Ted sighed. “Let me get my keys. You can walk with me to work.”

 

"I'm the bartender on the happy-hour to close shift at Baron's Square," Ted explained, as they walked towards Central Park. "And Wes, my roommate, really hates it when I turn the light on in the living room when I get in, since his bedroom is technically the dining room. No actual wall between it and the living room – just what we've put up with Ikea shelves. So I went out on the fire escape to stream _NCIS._ "

"Why on the fire escape? Why not your room?"

"Nice night, and better wi-fi signal from the McDonald's on the corner."

"Why not just go to the McDonald's?" Steve asked.

"It's 2 AM. I just kicked half of the people in McDonald's all over this city out of the bar. Also, the happy-hour to close shift is enough human contact to satisfy anyone for days."

Steve chuckled. "Got it."

"Are you always on nights?" Caroline asked after they crossed Central Park North.

"Nah, it's just my turn. Daisy was on nights last month."

"So you come home at that hour fairly often." Caroline said.

"Yeah."

"Been at Baron's Square long?" Steve asked.

"Ever since I finished college."

Steve looked surprised. "You've got a degree and you're tending bar?"

"Dude, I've got a degree in classics. What the hell else am I going to do with it?"

Steve looked at Caroline. "This is one of those things I'm behind on, isn't it."

"Yep. Why d'you think I went to grad school? I'd be in the same boat as him otherwise. I bet Daisy majored in English?"

"Early Sanskrit." Ted answered.

Caroline blinked. "Seriously? As opposed to tea-time Sanskrit?"

"As opposed to Sanskrit grammar, apparently." 

"LSATs?" 

"Next week. GREs the weekend after. Part of why I'm on nights this month."

"Gotcha. How long were you on the fire escape?"

Ted thought. "Let's see. I checked my e-mail, watched the episode, looked at a couple of blogs… Maybe an hour and a half?"

"Did you notice Steve when he arrived?"

Ted shrugged. "Not that I recall. I was looking at the laptop, not the street."

Caroline nodded. "So what made you look at the street?"

"The cop car's lights."

"Are cop cars a regular thing around 106th and Lenox?"

"About same as anywhere else in Harlem."

"Were you on the fire escape when Steve was arrested?"

"Yes."

"And did you hear anything?"

"I heard the cops asking him who the hell he thought he was saying where a crosswalk was needed."

"Okay. Anything else?"

"They told him he was under arrest, and read him his _Miranda_ rights."

"What did you hear next?"

"They asked him if he had any more guns in his bag."

"Did they ask him that specifically?"

Ted thought. "I think so: it might have been 'anything going to poke me,' or 'anything dangerous.'"

Caroline hid her disappointment. "And what did you hear next?"

"I heard him say 'I do not consent to you searching my person or bag.'"

"How do you remember that so specifically?"

"The phrasing stuck in my mind. Most of the guys who get arrested in my neighborhood – and there's a lot; that school's got computers in it – they just say 'I've got a knife in the outside pocket,' or 'don't mess with my brown lollipops.'"

Caroline started laughing so hard she had to sit down on a park bench.

"Sorry," she said, trying to catch her breath. "Seriously, they tell the cops where their heroin is?"

"Hand to God." Ted answered. "That's why I noticed. I mean, really, how often do you get a crook who's smart enough to say 'you can't go in there?'"

"And did you say or do anything?" Caroline managed to get back up and they stepped down on to the 97th Street Tranverse.

"Well, after I heard that, I muttered that he was right. The school _does_ need a crosswalk there: I hear the parents yelling at drivers every morning, and cars honking at kids. Sooner or later, someone's going to get hurt. And then everyone's going to be screaming about the chiiilllllldrunnnn, and how someone needs to be more careful about them."

Steve asked, "you don't like kids?" 

Ted looked at the playground they were passing and smiled. "I like kids fine. I could do without the 9 AM recess for the third graders, but that's what earplugs were invented for. What I don't like is when you get shocking crimes at a few people's initiative, lots of people's blessings, and _everyone's_ passive acquiescence."

Caroline furrowed her eyebrows. "Why does that sound familiar?"

"Your high school Latin," Steve answered. "Tacitus, on the murder of Galba."

"Thank you, that would have bugged me all day. Mr. Iyer," she said, turning back to Ted. "Are you willing to say this again in court?"

"Sure."

"Are you willing to meet me again to swear out an affidavit to what we've talked about?"

"If I can get off work, sure."

"I'll talk to your boss on your behalf." Caroline noticed Steve stiffening, looking at some of the people taking pictures with their phones.

"Caroline?" He asked, quietly.

"Yeah, I see them. Ted," she said, extending he hand. "Thanks for letting us walk with you. You've got my card: I'll be in touch." She stepped toward Central Park West, hailed a cab.

He smiled, shook her hand. "Sure enough." He extended a hand to Steve. "Mr. Rogers."

"Mr. Iyer." Steve shook carefully, having learned that too much enthusiasm tended to break fingers. 

"Steve," Caroline said from the cab. "Coming back to the office?"

"Right with you." He smiled at Ted. "Thanks," he said.

"You're welcome." Ted answered. Steve's smile looked _really_ familiar, he realized as Steve climbed in the cab. And now he'd spend the whole shift trying to place where he'd seen it before.


	4. Chapter 4

Clint had returned to the Tower from SHIELD while Steve and Natasha were cleaning their guns and discussing Steve and Caroline's stroll through Harlem.

"I'm supposed to be 'thinking about what I want to get out of this exercise in PR nightmare management.'" Steve said, field stripping his rifle

Natasha's lips twitched as she swung the barrel of her M1911A1 and picked up a brush and solvent. "Are you not allowed to come out and play until you're done thinking? And do you get a minute for each of your biological years or chronological?"

Steve chuckled. "I'm not sure. She did sound a bit like my Mom when I'd pushed her too far…" He set the rifle in the towel-covered vise and reached for a paper towel to wipe it down.

Natasha shook her head, brushing through the barrel. "Better check with her before you get off the naughty step, then."

"Very funny." Steve looked at the paper towel, frowned at the stain, and reached for another.

"You really want to listen to Natasha on this, Steve," Clint said, sitting down.  "I've heard about what lawyers do to disobedient clients. It involves papercuts. And lemon juice." Clint came in and sat down across the table facing the empty seat and set out bowstrings.  "And she's already likely to be irritated – Phil and Robbie Burr have her booked in with Thor to cover Asgardian law for the rest of the week."

"Thor's coming back into town?" Natasha asked. "When?"

"Tonight, eight-ish." Clint answered.

Natasha's head snapped up. " _Tonight_?" It was her turn to cook, and she'd planned for eleven. Adding Thor to the company meant changing it to a meal for seventeen. She picked up the pace on cleaning her gun.

"New record for you, Nat." Clint said as she finished and re-assembled the handgun.

"Thanks." She stood up. "Got to run: going to have to hit the Costco.

 

 

In light of the last-minute notification of Thor's arrival, five Stark Industry minions had been dispatched from the East River Ferry Dock at 34th to the Greenwood Costco for supplies to augment Natasha's planned pork stew.  They returned with three packages of Swedish meatballs, six rotisserie chickens, four packages each of fresh spinach, broccoli and eggplant, an extra Caesar salad, three cases of soda, four pounds of tiramisu spongecake, a box of frozen chocolate chip cookie dough – and four four-pound boxes of Pop Tarts for the next morning.

Rather than try to fit the entire spread on to the table, dinner was set up as a buffet on the kitchen island.  Thor eyed the eggplant suspiciously.  "Are you certain this is a vegetable and not rash mane naga?"

"Rash mane naga?" Steve asked, sitting down next to Tony.

"A lizard about as tall as Natasha, covered in yellow feathers.  It has talons as large as my hands. They train easily, are very friendly within the family, and make excellent guards."

"Asgard's guard dogs are Big Bird." Tony said, digging into his pasta.  "Does this mean Elmo is their housecat?"

"Of course Elmo's not their housecat, Tony." Phil answered, sitting down next to Clint, opposite Natasha .  "Elmo is their public address system."

"His voice _is_ easily identified," Clint said thoughtfully.

"Just like fingernails on chalkboard." Bruce retorted.

"What is an Elmo?" Thor asked Natasha, adding a quarter chicken to his plate.

"Humanoid puppet character covered in red fur on a children's educational program. The character is set to be about three human years old."  She answered.  "Depending on your point of view, either one of the best or worst additions to Sesame Street ever."

"And there's tonight's game," Bruce said. "Puppets that make your skin crawl."

"Charlie McCarthy." Steve said immediately, shuddering the way he did when the mercury dropped below zero Fahrenheit. "I had to spend six weeks on tour with that Edgar Bergen as a warm up. He used to talk to it backstage. That thing was _freaky_."

Natasha identified Barney as her least favorite media creature. Phil said he felt Alf gave people the wrong impression about alien lifeforms, especially their relationship with cats. 

Natasha looked at Clint, who looked at his plate. "Bobby Benson. With the baby band – that… well. Yeah. Bobby Benson." Phil's hand slid between Clint's back and the back of Clint's chair and rubbed gently. "How 'bout you, Stark?"

Tony said thoughtfully, "Baxter the clown. Always so enthusiastic until he actually came into contact with something new – and then he became terrified of becoming what he was."

Bruce nodded. "Yeah, Punch's anger issues make me uncomfortable for kind of the same reason."

Thor tried the eggplant, found it pleasing, and put a large quantity on his plate. "Is it common to torment Midgardian children with puppets as a means of training them for future battle?"

"No, it's mainly a means of ensuring continued employment of a class of people known as 'therapists,'" Tony answered. "What about you, Shyster chick?"

Silence met him, and he looked around the table and did a headcount. "Are we missing someone? I thought her neighborhood was still overrun by paparazzi."

"Apparently, Ms. Lakehurst made her own arrangements for the evening." Phil said, deceptively mild.

"She does seem to have a lousy sense of self-preservation," Steve said, getting up to get seconds on the stew. "We walked through Harlem today. You didn't walk through Harlem when _I_ was a kid."

"You usually don't do it now, either."  Bruce said. "Even after they cleaned up my mess.  Pride?"

Phil shrugged. "Cамостятeльность, I'd say, more."

"Samastoyatel-what?" Bruce asked.

"One of those Russian words that just doesn't work in English," Clint said.

"Self-standing-ness?" Thor said. "That _is_ an unusual word."

"Independence doesn't really cover it," Natasha said. "Neither does self-reliance. However," she said, passing the gravy for the Swedish meatballs toward Steve, "She turned up on the Upper West Side about twenty minutes after she left the office today."

"You had to go looking for her?" Bruce asked.

"Yeah, we're not thrilled either." Clint said.

"A fact that Natasha and Clint will be communicating to Ms. Lakehurst tomorrow morning." Phil concluded.

 

*~*~*

 

"He just handed you an envelope of cash? Right there on the street?" Leonie Weaver helped Caroline pull the futon in Leonie's at-home office flat from the couch set-up. "I thought he'd be brighter."

"Bright, yes. Impulse control in presence of press, not so much. There's a reason he keeps Kirkland, Kirkland, Abraham and Smith's partners in Christmas bonuses. He doesn't need a lawyer: he needs a practice group."

Leonie giggled. The high, soprano sound was at odds with her 5'11" height and lush figure.  "And the tabloid world exploded."

"And the tabloid world exploded." Caroline agreed. "I've got nasty e-mails from my landlord, nastier e-mails from the neighborhood watch executive committee, and I think that an 85-year- old Russian grandma suggested that I do something anatomically impossible. I haven't checked the translation yet."

"So, willing to talk to us about that new partner-track slot, then?" Leonie was 'of counsel' at Papagopolis, Pounder & Choo, a large, high powered firm with significant practice groups in land use and zoning law. Popular money at the New York City Department of Buildings had her pegged as the woman who would either bring down Donald Trump by litigation – or the woman whose husband would unseat Trump in a bloodless coup. She passed Caroline a side of a fitted sheet.

Darius, said husband, came into the den with a three year old hanging off of one arm. "Go ahead, kiddo," he said to their son, Joey.

Joey let go of his dad's arm and his feet thumped on the floor. "Mommy, can I have storytime before bed from Aunt Caralin?"

"Yes, you may if you ask her nicely and she says it's okay." Leonie answered, bright smile beaming against her dark skin.

Joey turned to Caroline, stood up very straight made an attempt to come to attention in his Hulk pajamas. The footies made the process a little slippery, so he had to try a couple of times. "Aunt Caralin, may I _please_ have storytime before bed?"

"Of course you may." Caroline grinned, tucking in her side and shaking out the flat sheet. "Why don't you go pick something out with your Dad, and I'll be there in a minute, okay?"

"'K."  Joey turned, slipped a little and then bounded down the hall in his best Hulk impression.

"Clara's over bedtime stories now?" Caroline asked Darius. He tended to put the kids to bed at 8, since right now he was working a European desk, and thus at the office from five to one.

"No, she's just too dignified to come and ask for them herself.  It has to be offered." Darius answered, watching Joey slide into his bedroom. "And sometimes it's 'no, I just want to finish reading this chapter.' Which means sneaking up on her an hour later and making sure she's actually _asleep_ : she only got her bookcase back last week."

"Darius found her awake and reading as he was getting up at 3 AM back in August," Leonie explained, putting a couple of pillows on the bed.  "She lost TV and computer for three days, and we moved her bookshelf out into the living room."

"Ah." Caroline commented, straightening the comforter.

"Caroline, question about the… box."  Darius said.  Caroline had requested a loaner gun-safe from SHIELD to bring with her overnight: it was sitting in the child-locked linen closet, with all the household medicines.

"Mmm?"

"I'm not going to set anything alarm-y off if I bump it, going into the closet for some Tylenol or anything am I?"

"Not to my knowledge." Caroline answered. "And it's got a biometric lock on it: Clara and Joey aren't going to be able to get into it without me opening it for them.  I really can't thank you enough for letting me stay tonight," she said turning to Leonie.

Leonie waved her off. "You looked after Clara daily for 2 weeks when I had Joey and the C-section. I think the least I can do is give you the couch in my office.  And you know, the basement apartment offer is still open…"

Caroline shrugged. "I'll think about it, okay? I'm starting to warm up to a shorter commute."

"Good enough."

"Aunt Caralin? I'm ready!" Joey's high voice called down the hall.

"Coming, kidlet!" Caroline called back. "I'll be sure to pop in on Clara once I have done my Auntly duty. What's she reading today, anyway?"

"Not sure." Darius answered. "Yesterday it was _The Great Brain_ does something that I cannot recall in Utah during the late 19 th / early 20th century."

"Gotcha." She hugged Darius, taller than his wife, lean as a greyhound and all solid muscle. The couple used bikes not just for transportation, but for recreation, and in the winter they spent every free minute snowshoeing and skiing.  "If I don't see you before you go to bed, good night and thanks for letting me stay."

Darius hugged back. "No problem."

"Aunt Caaarrrraaaaalllinn!" Joey's voice was approaching a whine.

Caroline stepped into the hall for her command performance of _If You Give a Mouse a Cookie_.

 

*~*~*

 

Natasha slid the door from the garden into the Weavers' kitchen / dining room combo, setting off the Weavers' alarm.  Caroline had been working in low light: until Natasha got through the drapes and into the house, she didn't see where Caroline had positioned herself.  The lawyer was at the head of the table reading the paper, clear view of both the front foyer and the garden door, gun drawn. A click of her thumb on a key-fob turned the alarm off.

"No coal chute. I checked." She told Natasha. This made it an improvement on the subdivided house her Brighton Beach apartment was in.

"So did I," Natasha said, her voice was low and cold.

Caroline was going to ask what was wrong when Clint came down the stairs giving a giggling Clara a piggyback ride. She squeaked when she saw Natasha and slid down Clint's back to try and come over to be introduced. He gently held her back with a gentle hand on her shoulder: Clara made a confused, hurt noise, and Clint gave Caroline a withering look.

"You don't put non-combatants in harm's way. If you want to change careers that badly, talk to HR." Clint said.

The distinctive sound of a shotgun being racked echoed through the foyer.  Leonie stood behind Clint at point blank range, her grandfather's shotgun pointed at his head.  "Take. Your. Hand. Off. My. Daughter."

Clint took his hand off Clara, and them both at head-height. 

"Over here, hon." Leonie said to Clara while she kept the shotgun.  Clara went sideways, getting out of his reach, and then out and around to get behind Leonie.  Once she had her daughter safe, Leonie asked "Kelo in the City of New London, Caroline?"

Caroline kept her gun on Natasha and asked her ID challenge "это наш цирк, Natasha Sovietovna?"  Is this our circus?

 "Это не наша обезьяна." It's not our monkey.

ID confirmed, Caroline replied "хорошо," turned and put her gun on Clint. "Torturing enemy ghosts with sunlight, Clint?*"

"All seeing eyes read the heart." He answered.

She lowered her gun, and answered Leonie with the all-clear. "Gitlow loves New York, Leonie."

Leonie lowered the shotgun.

Clint looked at Natasha: her eyes flickered down and up.  Clint tossed a disk at Caroline that hit and stuck to her at mid-chest.  It turned red and said 'Hi, I'm a bomb!'

"Congratulations, Caroline," Clint said. "You're dead."

 

*~*~*

 

Clint had picked up Caroline's backpack and brought it down with Clara. Natasha stopped long enough to give Clara the autograph the little girl wanted before she and Clint dragged Caroline to SHIELD. It was a bizarre trip: every time she started to open her mouth, one agent or the other would glare at her.  After the fourth time, Caroline just sighed, folded her arms in a sulk that would have done Clara credit, and stared out the window at the river going by.

They parked her in an interrogation room.  This slightly surprised Caroline: she was reasonably certain she hadn't broken any laws. Granted, this didn't mean she wouldn't be fired. She tried to narrow down causes for termination, and put 'update résumé' on her to-do list.  She was beginning to think she should simply schedule it a regular appointment for Thursday afternoons.

She heard two doors open and close in succession in the hall, but no step between them and reflected on how far down she was in the building.  It was entirely possible that at this number of foul-ups, SHIELD skipped the HR part of 'termination' and jumped straight to 'disposal of bodies.'

Either way, there wasn't any point in wasting the energy worrying about what was going on: she might as well shut out the compact fluorescents.  She folded her hands on her lap, and closed her eyes against the compact florescent lights.

 

Standing on the other side of the one-way glass, Clint handed Natasha the mug of tea he'd brought down. "Always important to warm up the vocal cords before delivering a smack-down."

She shook her head. "No point in yelling," she sipped her tea, watching Caroline at the table. The lawyer's nose scrunched and she muttered something.

"Mmm."  Clint sipped his own coffee, noting the movement. "Ms. Weaver seemed okay with me using her window to come in. The shotgun was something of a surprise."

"Not really."  Natasha said. "Piggyback rides are one thing – but you were keeping her kid from going somewhere she wanted to go."  She set the mug down. "Namely, to ask for my autograph."

"No, I meant that it was out of the gun range and in the house was something of a surprise." Clint said, "although the piggyback / restraint thing was something of a disconnection, too."

"Really." Natasha agreed, taking off both guns, all four knives and the Widow's Bites, and piling them on the counter.  "I had no idea the little girl was a fan."

 

Caroline had gone through Portia's speech from _Merchant of Venice_ ten times, and had gotten through line 18 ( _That in the course of justice we all must see salvation_ ,) and was on 19 ( _We all do pray for mercy_ ) when she heard the lock open on the door. She opened her eyes.

Natasha let the door close behind her, locks sliding home. She came around the table, walked behind Caroline, and walked back down the table and sat down in the empty seat across from Caroline.  Caroline was able to get a good look at her in the one-way glass as Natasha made the circuit.

The absence of weapons, as intended, scared Caroline more than anything else so far this morning.

" _Primum non nocere._ "  Natasha said. "You're familiar with the phrase? I know it's more common among doctors."

Caroline nodded cautiously.

"Then you can start listing every way that you did not ensure that you'd do no harm from the time you arrived at the office yesterday until Clint's and my arrival at the Weavers' this morning. You may stop when you've identified what I'm most concerned about. I'll tell you when."

Caroline ran her mind back over the 24 hours or so. She suspected this was going to take some time, and began.  "I put the Weavers in danger. I shut off the alarm before confirming your identity. I put children in danger. I signed out equipment without authorization. I accepted services from a private citizen because of my official position valued at greater than $20 without compensation. I got into an unknown taxi …"

 

Phil joined Clint in the observation room, bringing fresh coffee.  "How long now?"

"An hour and a bit." Clint accepted the coffee with gratitude. 4:30, the time he and Natasha had left the Tower that morning, was not his favorite time of day.

"A bit?" Phil asked, gently teasing. He knew that Clint's internal accuracy was on a par with an atomic clock's.

"13 minutes."

"She still hasn't gotten to it?" Phil sat down and set his tablet on the counter.

"It doesn't even seem to have crossed her mind." Clint answered. "But she could teach self-accusation to a Carmelite nun." He sipped his coffee, then asked, "why doesn't our file show her as religiously observant?"

"She's not," Phil said. "Best we can tell, the last time she was at a religious service was for a friend's wedding four years ago."

"So why's she reciting psalms?"

"Which one?"

"Damned if I know. I can only identify the 23rd because of 'Gangster's Paradise.'"

Phil chuckled. "What was she saying, then?"

"'It is twice blessed, it blesseth him that gives and him that takes?'"

Phil smiled. "That's your explanation. Not the usual sort of religious. Shakespeare: _Merchant of Venice_."

Clint thought. "The one with the female lawyer. Got it."  He finished his coffee. "Five bucks says we don't even _start_ to get to get there before we break the two and a half hour mark."

"I'll take that action. I bet she gets it as soon as Natasha brings out the Act of Contrition. Two hours or less."  Phil opened his tablet to catch up on e-mail. "Good thing I freed up the morning."

 

An hour and a half in, Caroline was losing her voice, and the tiny variations in the CFL lighting were starting to bounce around the interior of her skull. She was also starting to run out of things she had done in 21 hours that Natasha had told her to contemplate.

"I used my bare hand to open the door leaving the ladies' room on the 14th floor."

Natasha's expression finally changed from one of bland interest to puzzlement. "How does that not do no harm?"

Caroline swallowed. "It re-contaminates your hands just after you've washed them. You touch anyone before washing them again, you've become a brand-new germ vector."

Natasha nodded. She'd been taught that you didn't directly touch bathroom surfaces because of fingerprints.  "Continue."

Caroline racked her brain. "I honestly… I can't think of anything else I've done."

"How about things you have left undone that you ought to have done?"

Caroline sighed, and started again.  "I didn't ask Ken Pollard if he'd be okay with me taking my contacts out in front of him. I didn't say 'thank you,' when Tom McLaurin passed me the _New York Times_ in the break room…"

 

Phil passed Clint a five dollar bill when the 'length of interview' clock turned over to 2:02. 

"Always fun taking your money, boss."  Clint smiled and tucked the bill into his vest pocket.

 

At the beginning of hour three, Natasha asked her fourth question.  "How did Clint and I know where to find you this morning?"

"GPS tracker. Phone, tablet or panic button." Caroline answered, getting progressively more hoarse. 

Natasha waited for Caroline to continue.

"The panic button goes off if I stay in one position for 2 or more hours," Caroline said. "The phone and tablet send out signals on a regular cycle."

An elegant red eyebrow was raised.

"You can search those data sets." Caroline continued. "So you had a reason to search them."

The tiniest of nods.

"You – or someone – was looking for me.  Which," she coughed, "implies you didn't know where I was."

"Because…?"

"Because I didn't tell anyone where I was going?"  Caroline asked.

"Correct. You can stop now."  Natasha held up a hand where Clint and Phil could see it. 

 

Clint picked up two water bottles on the counter of the observation room, and took them through to the interview room.  He handed one to Natasha, the other to Caroline.

"Two places you were expected to turn up after you left the office." He said, sitting down. "Stark Tower or the entrance to the Q line on 7th Ave. You turned up on neither. Your MetroCard hadn't been swiped." Caroline nodded her thanks to Clint for the water and looked closely at it trying to figure out which bottle to open. She went with the left and reached for it: her hand passed through the bottle. She kept reaching and hit the right-hand bottle, which she pulled towards her. "Our CCTV put you getting into a taxi, but by full dark you hadn't shown up on the CCTVs on or around your building."

"When you didn't show up at any of the 'usual' locations you'd be expected, the computer started searching for you throughout the tri-state area." Natasha added. "It found your call to Ms. Weaver, and her call back. That triggered the information we had on the Weavers. We knew where you were _planning_ on being, and then your phone and tablet confirmed your arrival."

"It also made sense of you signing out the gun safe." Clint continued.  "You're authorized to sign those out, by the way.  But the 'disappearing' thing – not."

"So, when I took Captain Rogers out to the Costco, I should have… signed off campus?" Caroline's voice was getting a little stronger, but was still hoarse. The flickering parts of the CFLs had either intensified or their banging around inside her head was amplifying them. Either way, they were starting to concentrate behind her ear and radiate up to the crown of her skull.

"He did, and listed you as with him." Natasha said, sipping her own water. She looked at Caroline, down at her water, and back up at Caroline.

Caroline took the hint and kept drinking before asking, "Why hasn't this been an issue before?"

"Because, around here, saying 'Dave, I'm heading home,' at the end of the day is enough for the computer to trigger your setting to 'out of office, going home,'" Clint answered, stealing Natasha's water bottle cap, "and starts the timers for 'home.'"

"Likewise 'out to lunch,' which you usually don't, and leaving the building with a group after logging off your computer. That triggers the subroutines for the local bars." Natasha said. "You don't do a lot of that, either."

"And yes, also pissed about the Weavers specifically." Clint added. "Because of the non-combatants and the kids. But there are 10 million people in this city." He shrugged. "Dangerous business, going out your door. You mostly did what you needed to to not be a threat to them."

"Including warning them it was a hazard," Natasha said. "You made the potential threat very clear when you called Ms. Weaver."

"And gave her plenty of chances to say 'no,' and flat out told her to call Mr. Weaver and make sure _he_ was okay with you staying." Clint said.  "And she's right. Johnny Storm's not nearly as reliable a distraction as he used to be."

"So I need to be telling the computer where I'm going."  Caroline said, slowly sipping her water. The headache was starting to pulse: she figured she had about an hour before horizontal went from 'good idea' to 'involuntary.' "Is there a way to do it specifically?"

"There's an app for that," Natasha answered. "It's on your phone."

"Not that you're going to be needing it for a while," Clint added.

Caroline's voice was still wrecked, but she managed her 'I can leave you to bully Target into stocking Hawkeye Halloween costumes on your own, you know,' tone.  "Oh, Agent Barton? And why's that?"

"Most immediately, because you've got that 1,000-mile stare of 'Too many adrenaline spikes and not enough coffee in the last 24 hours.'" Clint answered. "You're probably going to spend the next eight or 12 hours unconscious."

"Or until the Advil kicks in," Caroline answered, setting the water down and rolling her neck.  The pops echoed, and she winced at the sound. 

"But also," Natasha added, watching Caroline fold her arms on the table and set her head on them, "Because you're pretty much not going anywhere alone for a while.  We don't like it when our lawyer disappears.  It makes us look…" she made a face like she was sucking a lemon "amateurish."

 "Ah." Caroline answered. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry."  Clint answered, looking up at Phil, who turned the lights down on the interrogation room side of the one-way glass, making it see-through.  "Do better."

"But for the foreseeable future," Phil said over the intercom, "we're going to be exercising the 'escort required' portion of your contract."

Caroline shifted one hand out from under her head and replied to Phil with a thumbs up. Then, since she found the dark and arms reasonably comfortable, she passed out.

 

 


	5. If it's Thursday, it must be Hallucinogens

As Caroline now knew, anyone assigned to the Avengers Initiative as part of the field team or support staff was to have a mobile phone on their person at any time they were not in their office or home.  During her days in the company of Agent Piñeda, Caroline had been informed that 'on her person' did not mean 'in her bag,' 'in the coat she was wearing on the way in,' or 'still on the charger in the car / her place.'

Phil did the speech better (and had done so when they had had to go from the parking garage back up to the residential floors for her phone on Monday morning).

Rick Piñeda had stayed glued to her side for three days before being released back into the wilds where junior SHIELD agents could run free. He sat in the guest chair of her office with a tablet and an apparent hatred for the assessments assigned him. Caroline felt his pain: she was line-editing the SHIELD HR manual for personnel assigned to the Avengers Initiative for compliance with current employment law.  By hand.

She knew what she had done to earn her assignment. Phil, Robbie, Steve, Natasha and Clint had all highlighted and drawn arrows at section 19, sub section 9.3, paragraph 8. _Personnel assigned to the Initiative are to utilize the locating application to log all departures from and returns to SHIELD offices or personal dwellings, indicating anticipated destination, mode of transportation, and itinerary_. Clint's arrow had fletching on it with curlicues at the ends in purple glitter gel ink. Caroline never did find out what Piñeda had done to be sentenced to be her escort for the first half of the week.

On Thursday morning, though, she found that she missed him. She especially missed his quiet competence that let her get on with her job. David Barcus, her new warder, apparently wouldn't know 'quiet' or 'competent' if they hit him with a two-by-four. Barcus had spent the morning split between playing a cacophonous first-person shooter game and talking to his girlfriend on his cell at the top of his lungs. Caroline wondered how Kendra-baby-sweetheart would react if she learned that Davie-darling had been staring at Caroline's chest the entire time he was being briefed by Phil in reception that morning.

The game was loud enough that Caroline almost missed her phone starting on The Song That Never Ends. She pulled it from its case and pressed her thumb to it to unlock.

Barcus didn't. "Hey," he said, "would you mind setting that to silent? It's messing up my concentration."

"I find it unlikely that silencing it will be much help." Caroline said, reading the caller ID and message. From Steve Rogers: Avengers assemble, launch deck 3, wheels up at 10.40.

The trainee agents went on their morning break at 10.20, and the barista in the cafeteria who knew how to make high-test espresso finished her shift finished at 10.30.

It was now 10.28.

SHIELD's launch deck was on the 28th floor: legal was on the 10th. The cafeteria was on 15.

Caroline was up and headed for the door before she quite realized.

"Hey, where ya goin?" Barcus asked as she stood up and headed for the door.

"Ladies’," she answered. As she expected, Barcus let it go.

She turned to the right for the elevator. The ladies' room was on the left. Her hall was the farthest from the elevator bay. She was suddenly glad of her Danskos as she got clear of her office and started to run.

An elevator arrived just as she got to the tenth floor lobby, stitch in her  side and more than a little out of breath. Most of the juniors were, as Barcus had been, enraptured by the heaving cleavage. She used it to her advantage and bellowed.

"OUT. Now, everyone, out, clear it."

"When did we hire prison wardens?" one junior wondered, holding the door for her.

"Ask Agent Coulson, I dare you," another replied.

Caroline swiped her key-card over the 'independent service' button to keep the elevator from stopping at calls. She cleared the destinations (12, 15 and 21) and pushed 28.

10.32.

At the 28th floor, she realized three things: one, she had no idea where launch deck three was, two, she was the only person in sight in civvies, and three, she was also the only person in sight using a hip (not thigh) holster. Asking directions was going to be awkward.

Then again, explaining to Col. Fury why Captain America's bail was revoked would be much more awkward, and had a good chance of being lethal.

"Suck it up, Lakehurst." She muttered, stepped out into the hall and stopped the first person she saw. "Launch deck three. Which way?"

The skinny, tall agent in a field-ops suit looked her up and down and said, "Are you lost? This is an authorized personnel level only."

"I'm authorized, just unfamiliar. Which way?"

He pointed to the left. "Thanks." She took off down the hall.

"But you'll need an access code to get in…" he called down after her.

"Yeah, can see that." She said. ID card, finger-print / PIN and retina scan. She swiped, entered her usual PIN. No retina scanner appeared. "Fuck."

Her mobile started The Song That Never Ends again. From Steve Rogers: Wheels up in 5, waiting on biochem gear.

The field agent (Hunt, she read on the name tape) caught up to her and looked over her shoulder. " _You're_ with the Avengers?" He asked, chin to his chest, eyebrows raised.

"The lawyer."

"Really."

"Seriously, the lawyer." She looked at the thoroughly amused agent. "Here, I'll prove it." She swiped her ID and hit the 'query' button on the PIN pad that popped up, then hit 'Call' on her phone while he dithered, hoping she'd get someone on the other side who could let her in.

Agent Hunt read the file that came up, looked from it to her. "Lakehurst, Caroline, SHIELD Legal. Assignment: Avengers Initiative. Seriously, you're the lawyer." He shook his head.

Steve's phone went to voice mail. She hit 'next' for Phil. "C'mon, dammit, they're out in three…"

Hunt swiped his ID, entered his PIN and cleared the retina scan. The doors opened, and he followed her in.

Captain America was standing in front of a lowered ramp, looking at a tablet and talking to a worried looking Bruce Banner and another guy she thought was in meteorology. He looked up as the door opened, went back to his tablet and then looked up again.

"…Bhopal is really not a crisis response model we _want_ to use here," Bruce was saying.

Caroline pushed her way between Bruce and the Captain, and blocked his route onto the Quinjet. "Are you leaving the state?" s he demanded.

"Ms. Lakehurst, this is a field operation, need to know…"

"Two words, Captain. Bench. Warrant. Are you leaving New York State?"

"I really can't give particulars…" The jets started to power up, as Black Widow, Hawkeye and Thor slid past her into the jet, along with group of techs with carts of gas masks. The techs came trooping out of the jet a moment later.

Caroline stood her ground, planting her feet and taking advantage of the extra four inches of height the ramp gave her to scowl at the Captain. "Captain, if you leave the state, you will be arrested on return. Your bail will be revoked and you will _sit in jail_ until your trial date. Now. Are you leaving New York State?"

Bruce cleared his throat. "It's a suspicious gas leak in the Finger Lakes region, near Canadaigua Lake."

"We can't pin the source down yet." Captain America said. "It could be Hydra or AIM, or some new group for that matter. The gas is making people cry green tears, turning skin blue, and the entire town of Godettsville has barricaded itself inside the 19th century wool mill against unknown attackers."

"Hell. That's right on the border." She stepped off the ramp, reached up grabbed the Captain by the collar and pulled him down to her face. The engines started their warm-up sequence, and she shouted over the noise. "Listen to me very carefully. If your bail is revoked, I will not be able to get the charges dropped. You will go to trial, and you will lose. When you lose, you face up to a _year_ in jail. During that time you will not be able to protect _anyone_ –" she shook her head in emphasis. "– not your team, not the city, not the good people of the Finger Lakes region. Keep your ass in New York State. Do I make myself clear?" Bruce passed the Captain a rebreathing mask over Caroline's shoulder. He accepted it with one hand and pulled out of Caroline's grip easily.

"Crystal." He pulled up the cowl, slid the air mask over his head, and bent to pick up his shield.

"Excellent." She stepped out of his way. "Good luck."

"Watch out for the jet blast!" He replied, following Bruce up the gangway. The ramp closed up after him.

She stepped back, looking around the hangar for the designated safe-zone. Hunt tapped her shoulder and pointed to the green box in the far corner where Phil stood scowling, arms crossing his chest, sunglasses on, brows furrowed. Hunt pulled on his own sunglasses as they made the safe zone. Caroline took the hint, looked for eye protection, grabbed pair of welding goggles off a work table, pulling them over her face. She'd somehow expected that Tony's goggles would be a looser fit in the headband.

Phil put a hand to his ear, muttered, and the jet shot out of the building, banking hard to the north-east and following the river. Once the hangar doors closed, Phil took his sunglasses off and looked from Hunt to Caroline and back to Hunt. "This does not appear to be Mr. Barcus, Ms. Lakehurst."

"I'd noticed." Caroline said. She pulled the goggles off and pushed her hand up through her hair.

"Walk with us, Agent Hunt." As they walked toward the corridor, Phil asked, "Do we need to send a medical team to your office?"

"Not unless 'damage to professional pride' is as mortal a wound among junior agents as it is to first-year associates." She answered, swiping her ID across the card reader on the hangar as they left.

Hunt chortled. "Yep. Avengers' lawyer. Seeing it now."

Phil smiled. "How did you slip him?"

"Told him I was going to the ladies’. He just asked me to turn my new ringtone down."

Phil scowled. "And Agent Piñeda?" he asked.

"Escorted me to the unisex handicapped restroom and checked it each time." Caroline waited while Phil went through the ID and PIN dance to call for an elevator to take him up to his office on the 36th floor, then asked, "You don't need to be coordinating the operation from this end?"

"Limited duty, still, or I'd be in the field with them. Agent Sitwell's going on scene with the team." Phil answered. "Which means I'm feeling a bit deprived." He smiled. "Bloodthirsty, even." Hunt shivered, and Phil turned to him. "Agent Hunt, would you be so kind as to escort Ms. Lakehurst back to her office and ask Mr. Barcus to see Ms. Langham and myself in my office?"

"Of course, Mr. Coulson. And after I've seen Ms. Lakehurst back to her office?"

"Stay with her until you're relieved, please, Agent Hunt. Full escort protocol."

"Understood, sir. Anything else?"

The elevator arrived. "Not just now, thank you, Agent Hunt. Ms. Lakehurst." Coulson stepped into the elevator and pushed the button for the 36th floor.

"Sir."

"Thank you, Mr. Coulson."

Hunt began the ID and PIN routine for another elevator turned to Caroline, and said, "who'd you piss off to win a full escort assigned by Agent Coulson?"

"Natasha Romanov and Clint Barton." She answered.

Hunt tilted his head, and then put his hand out. He pushed gently on her shoulder.

"Uhm, hi? Personal space?"

"Sorry," Hunt answered. "Just wanted to be sure you're not a ghost."

"Sorry. Not undead yet."

"Damn," he said, as the elevator arrived. "'Meeting the undead' is the last square I need for my SHIELD bingo card. That, or someone who's seen all eleven Doctors Who."

"Oh, I know who that one is." Caroline said, as the elevator arrived. Hunt checked it before ushering her on.

"You do?"

"Yep. Noah Jepson, in operations tech."

"Awesome. Thanks."

"You're welcome. What do you win?"

"I think this month it's a Nerf crossbow set designed by the guys in weapons who used to work for Stark Industries."

"Jealous, here."

"I'll let you have a shot when I get it."

"Awesome."

"Uhm." Hunt looked at the elevator panel. "Which floor is legal on again?"

Caroline snickered and pushed the button for ten.

 

 


	6. Then again, Thursday might be the DA's office...

**Next Thursday Morning, Manhattan DA's Office**

Melissa Miller had been the receptionist at the Manhattan DA's office since she had moved to New York from Tuscaloosa in May. The office manager had hired her because petite blondes with Southern accents were invariably underestimated by New Yorkers. Melissa's youth exaggerated this effect. 

She'd seen a great deal in her months of tenure. Custom tailoring on lawyers was not unusual – and this was custom: no one with cleavage like this woman's could wear off-the-rack button-up shirts and not have a gap. Soldiers wearing enough chest candy to open a Jelly-Belly stand were less usual. Soldiers, sailors, airmen and marines who got into trouble in New York were usually handed back to their COs with the DA's compliments, (and the accused given best wishes on the possibility of continuing to have a career in the military).

This was, however, the first time that Melissa had seen both custom tailoring _and_ this many military decorations in a single pair.

"Ms. Lakehurst? Captain Rogers?" Both looked up. "Mr. Moore will see you now. Please follow me."

She led them back through the labyrinth of cubicles and glass walled bullpen desks to the conference room attached to the Assistant DA's office.  One of the lawyers they passed was packing a box on his desk.

"Losing staff to the private sector?" Lakehurst asked.

"Mr. Gates?" Melissa asked.  "Not sure where he's going." She knew that he hadn't been planning on leaving the DA's office, nor had given the customary two weeks' notice.

"Ah." The lawyer said.

"I thought I saw District Attorney Burke last week on CNN, crowing about how funding for the office had been drastically expanded as a result of the congestion tax revenues," the Captain commented.

Melissa heard a _thump_ and a slight _Unkh_   as the lawyer's foot landed squarely (and hard) on the Captain's foot. The receptionist contained her snicker and replied neutrally, "I didn't notice, Captain."  She knocked on the conference room door. "Mr. Moore? Caroline Lakehurst and Captain Steven Rogers."

"Thank you, Melissa. Please, come in, sit down." The Assistant DA looked nothing like Sam Watterston: for one, he was taller than the actor, taller than Steve, even. For another, he had a large, bulbous, red nose, skinny, and had close-cropped grey hair around a bald, equally red, pate. He extended his hand. "Thomas Moore."

Caroline extended her hand back. "Caroline Lakehurst."

They shook hands, and the ADA turned to Steve.

"Captain Rogers."

"Sir."  Neither Steve nor the ADA offered hands.

The lawyer smiled back. "No, that's my namesake: call me Tom. Please, sit down."

Caroline let Steve take the seat nearer the door: she'd noticed he always kept the door in sight. Regardless, she was still on Phil's 'must be escorted at all times' list and for this meeting, Steve was her designated babysitter. Rick Piñeda and Andrew Hunt had made it clear during their tenure in the position 'being escorted at all times' meant that the escort was to be between her and the door.

"Thank you for agreeing to meet with me." Moore said, taking a seat in the middle of the table opposite them.

"Thank you for being so prompt with the paperwork dismissing the weapons charge." Caroline replied, setting her briefcase on the floor between her and Steve.

"Not a problem." Moore replied. "However, that does still leave us with making graffiti, possession of graffiti making instruments, criminal mischief, obstruction of justice, and resisting arrest."

Caroline pulled a legal pad and her file on Steve's case out of her briefcase and set it on the table before uncapping a plastic fountain pen. "Resisting arrest, Mr. Moore? How, precisely, is standing still until given instructions resisting arrest?" She set the pen down before spreading her hands in a 'what are you going to do?' motion. "It's hardly my client's responsibility to telepathically divine the intention of the police. His hands were in handcuffs and they had guns out and pointed at him: in his position, I'd be reluctant to move anywhere without specific instruction, and I suspect you would be, too."

Moore shrugged. "Obstruction, then."

"Because he knew his lines?"

"You make a habit of telling your clients what to say when they're under arrest?"

"No, but SHIELD does." Caroline smiled and pulled out a copy of the SHIELD's Avengers' HR manual without opening the file. "I've marked the relevant passage." One paragraph was highlighted in bright green. Everything but the conjunctions, articles and coordinating conjunctions on the rest of the page were covered by black redaction ink.

"So I see." Moore replied. "That shows a great deal of foresight on SHIELD's part.

"Management does like to be prepared." Caroline replied. "So, resisting is out, as is obstruction. That leaves you with making graffiti, and criminal mischief."

"And possession of graffiti making instruments." Moore replied.

"Yes, I was thought you'd mention that." Caroline turned to Steve. "Captain, what precisely did you say to the arresting officers?"

"Captain Steven G. Rogers. My address is Park Avenue and East 45th street, New York, New York. My date of birth is July 4, 1918, social security number 094-36-6109. I work for the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division, phone number 212-334-9976. I do not consent to you searching my person or my bag."

Moore opened a tablet and tapped the screen. "Officers Scott and Phillips say that he said, 'no.'"

"To his Miranda rights?"

"No, when they asked him if there was anything dangerous in the bag."

Caroline tilted her head. "See, that's interesting." She pulled out a transparent piece of plastic roughly 3 x 5 inches. She tapped a PIN into it, and then tapped a movie camera icon. "This is the footage of the arrest that your office so kindly sent over." The StarkPlayer projected a white screen against the wall of the conference room at the foot of the table, and then began rolling the footage of Steve's arrest. "Here's Captain Rogers being arrested,"

The scene opened with Steve in plain view, hands above his head. Two police officers were visible: one held their gun on Steve, the other pushed Steve against the car, facing the camera, hands braced on the hood.  The officer who's gun was holstered frisked Steve, cuffed him, turned him sideways to the camera, bent down out of the camera's range, stood up, and put Steve's bag on the hood. She paused the recording.

"NYPD's squad cars don't have sound, but the officers have wireless microphones on their uniforms, seen here," Caroline tapped the card and a bright circle appeared on vest of the officer holding the gun, "and here." Another tap highlighted the microphone on the officer frisking Steve, and then she hit play again. "Here we see Officer Scott asking Captain Rogers a question. And we see Steve replying." She hit pause. "Given that you provided the film of the arrest, I find it puzzling that your office didn't make the audio available to us as well. Would you care to comment on that, Mr. Moore?"

"The precinct didn't tell me they had audio," Moore answered.

Caroline very thoughtfully didn't reply 'And I'm sure you went to great lengths to make sure you didn't ask,' but instead pulled several documents out of the folder, each stamped by notaries. "Well," she said, "that would explain why you sent their statements along then. Fortunately, you also sent the video, and we have a fair number of experts on reading lips in-house at SHIELD who are on the list of experts available for testimony and already accepted as such by New York's courts." Caroline passed over the dossier. "These are their sworn transcriptions of the interactions between Officer Scott, Officer Phillips and Captain Rogers all agree that the answer Captain Rogers reports, not the answer Officers Scott and Phillips report."  

"Your in-house experts, who naturally have _no_ vested interests in making sure Captain Rogers stay out of jail." Moore sneered.

Caroline didn't take the bait, but instead just pulled additional documents out of her folder. Steve wondered how much time she'd spent ordering and re-ordering them so she could simply pull them out without looking to see she had the right document. "Yes, that thought did occur to us. This is why we used third parties to ask for separate transcriptions from an analyst at the FBI, another from an analyst recommended by the New York State Department of Education, and one from Finkelstein-Bowles, the firm your office uses. You might also note that the second of those transcriptions, the one by Andre Wood? He works for SHIELD, but has consulted for your office, appearing in court at your behest numerous times."

Moore's lips tightened as he flipped through the documents.

"And, naturally, there's the witness." Caroline added.

Moore's head snapped up. "I _beg_ your pardon?"

"The witness. Swaran 'Ted' Iyer. He was on his fire escape at the time of the arrest." Another document joined the stack in front of Mr. Moore. "Most relevant to this matter is that his statement attesting to what he heard Captain Rogers say agrees with the transcriptions. More _interesting_ is what he said when he witnessed the arrest."

"Oh? And what's that?"

Caroline opened her own copy of the sworn statement, and read the answer. "'For crying out loud, he's _right_ , they do need a crosswalk there!!'" She closed the statement and tapped the StarkPlayer, turning off the projection. "Mr. Iyer's statement made me curious. So I went digging into the traffic reports from PS 447's neighborhood." Another document joined the stack in front of Mr. Moore.

"Mr. Moore," Caroline asked pleasantly, "do you know that children attending PS 447 and PS 448 are six times more likely to be hit by vehicles while trying to cross the street to get to school than children attending public schools on streets with comparable traffic volume and patterns on the Upper East Side or Upper West Side? And that those comparable schools have quite a few crosswalks, policemen serving as crossing guards stopping traffic, and are, relatively speaking, rather more pasty than the student bodies attending PS 447 or PS 448?"

Looking like he was picking up after a dog, Moore picked up the top page of this last document with his thumb and finger and then let it drop down on to the stack again. He leaned forward and crossed his arms in front of him on the conference table. "Are you filing a 14th Amendment suit on the children's behalf?"

"Not yet. But I could stop off over at the Federal District Court on Pearl Street and file a suit on the Captain's behalf against the NYPD for violating his civil liberties. Shouldn't cost the city more than eight figures in damages."

"You could do that," Moore replied. "But then, you'd have to deal with SHIELD owning up to employing Captain America, graffiti spreading hooligan."

"Come, now, Mr. Moore, he's well beyond the upper age-limit for 'hooligan.'"

"You would prefer punk?"

"I would prefer 'world-renowned artist and invading-alien-defeating super soldier.' Or Steve. Steve works." Caroline opened the bottle of water thoughtfully set out by the DA's office and sipped.

"We can't _drop_ the charges. We've got film from the school of Captain Rogers putting out the…" he searched for a term

"We've been calling it 'socially responsible graffiti' in our office," Caroline suggested, setting the bottle down on the table.

"That's not… an unreasonable description." Moore conceded.

"And despite my urgings, Captain Rogers is not seeking dismissal of _all_ the charges. Just the ones you don't have evidence to support, namely criminal mischief, obstruction of justice, resisting arrest, and carrying graffiti making instruments."

"We can prove the charges on the first."

"Mr. Iyer's more than happy to testify as to the state of the traffic both before and after the events of the evening in question."

"And if we push it, you'll also get him to testify as to legality of the search regarding the last."

Caroline tilted her head a little, blinked very slowly and shrugged forward just a little.

"Why only seeking dismissal on those charges? Why not on all?" Moore asked.

Caroline looked at Steve. "Captain?"

Steve cleared his throat. "It would require me to commit perjury."

"And the graffiti making instruments?"

"The 'instruments' were actually intended for a study of the bridges over the East River at sunrise."

"Of course they were." Moore said, deadpan.

"Come, Mr. Moore, everyone's familiar with the Captain's art work." Caroline got an odd look in her eyes just after she said this, looking back and forth from the paper documents to the phone on the table. She picked up her pen and scribbled on her notepad 'everyone's familiar with SGR's art. Everyone.'  Steve caught the note in the corner of his eye, raised an eyebrow, but kept his gaze on the ADA.

"True." Moore sighed. "Dismissal on criminal mischief, obstruction of justice, resisting arrest, and carrying graffiti making instruments." He offered, "ACD on making graffiti, community service."

"What?" Steve asked.

"Adjournment considering dismissal." Caroline translated for Steve. "The judge specifies a penalty, it usually includes a fine and a number of community service hours, and once paid and completed, the charges are dismissed. Bear in mind," she said to Moore, "that pretty much any community service project he turns up at (a) is going to likely get the entire team to show up to help, and (b) is going to become a media circus."

"That's nothing unusual for this office." Moore replied with a slight smile.

"And due to security constraints, we're going to need to vet the list of proposed projects to ensure that participation on the scheduled day isn't going to pose a danger to the public." Caroline added.

"We do tend to prefer that citizens don't get injured or killed as a side effect of our efforts to serve the community." Moore agreed.

"There may be occasions where rescheduling will have to happen as late as the day of scheduled service," Caroline warned.

"We keep trying to get AIM and Hydra to RSVP before attacks, but they never seem to get their response cards in on time." Steve said, entirely serious.

Moore and Caroline both _looked_ at him with identical expressions of 'Clients do not speak unless spoken to.'  Steve quickly folded his hands on the table and shut his mouth again.

Moore ignored Steve and replied to Caroline. "We can allow for a longer time frame for service completion than usual."

"That's more than agreeable." Caroline said. "I'll send the paperwork over this afternoon." She reordered her documents, pocketed the phone, stood up. Steve quickly got to his feet as she rose, and Moore, looking startled, did the same. Caroline extended her hand. "Mr. Moore."

"Ms. Lakehurst." Moore shook.

She nodded slightly to Steve, who likewise extended a hand.

"Sir."

"Captain." Moore accepted Steve's hand.  "We'll look into the traffic issue."

Steve smiled instead of responding.  They left the conference room, and started out of the labyrinth of the office.

"Mr. Gates," Caroline said, as they walked by the Deputy Assistant DA's desk. He was still packing a box, apparently loading it with personal items. "I'm sorry the public sector is losing you."

"Ms. Lakehurst," Gates said, a little anxious sounding: his voice squeaked a bit with the last syllable of Caroline's name. He cleared his throat. "Good morning. Hi. I'm sorry I'm losing the public sector."

She raised an eyebrow. "You're not leaving voluntarily?"

"I'm… exploring my options."

Caroline nodded and tapped Gates' address book. "I've heard exploration is good for the soul, especially if you haven't got a fixed destination in mind. Still have my card?"

Gates blinked. "Uhm. Yes?"

"Excellent. E-mail me."

"O…kay?"

"Very okay." She smiled.  "Have a nice day, Mr. Gates."

"You too…" He still sounded a bit surprised.

Steve held his tongue until he was putting on his beret as they were leaving the building. "This thing still makes me twitch."

"The blue pants are what get me. They just look _wrong_. But then, I commuted past the Pentagon every day for eight years, I'm bound to think that the only acceptable colors for military uniforms are green, khaki, navy and white."

"I thought your parents were academics."

"They are. We lived in DC, but I went to school in Virginia. Took the subway home every day, right past…"

"The Pentagon. Got it."

"Well done, by the way," Caroline said warmly, "not rising to Moore's bait on the traffic."

"None of the available lines seemed like the right response."

"Quite right." Caroline had her phone out and was dialing the office. "Dave, I need the Rogers estate's files on my desk by the time I get there, please. All of it. Yes, I do mean all of it. All the way back to 1945." She looked at Steve. "Am I not speaking English?"

"I understand what you're saying: that's a pretty good indicator that you are."

"Thank you, Captain. Dave. All sixty-seven years. On my desk. By the time I get back. Any questions?" She waited, rolled her eyes at Steve as the SHIELD SUV pulled up for their ride back to the office. He opened the door, shepherded her in, and climbed in after her. "Fine. Yes. Thank you, Dave." She hung up and shook her head. "That boy is going to be the death of me. Or of Jordan. Possibly both of us."

"Captain?" Andrew Hunt was at the wheel. "Where to?"

"Headquarters, Agent Hunt, thanks." Steve turned back to Caroline. "What was that with Gates?"

She smiled. "He didn't even blink when we blew his mental illness court referral out of the water with you at arraignment. A man who doesn't flinch at having to go to bat against Captain America is someone I would much rather have working _for_ us than _against_ us, and the DA's office is out of its mind to let him go."

"Okay, I can see that." Steve looked out the window. "So – any idea why they're letting him go?"

"Oh, I know exactly why they're firing him." Caroline answered. "We shouldn't have had this meeting for about another year."

"I thought that the Sixth Amendment guaranteed a speedy…"

"Yeah. Ten million people live in the greater metroplex, Steve. The DA has about 500 lawyers: there's no way they can get to all 100,000 cases a year in a timely manner. If they say they're ready to go to trial at arraignment, then the clock stops, and they can take their own sweet time getting to defendants."

"I don't remember…" Steve furrowed his brow. "I'm not missing something, am I?"

"You're not. He probably did actually neglect to say that the office was prepared to go to trial. They had to scramble to deal, and he's probably just past the bar, so he's FNG, and out. Their loss." She chuckled. "Our gain, I hope. _You_ ," she said, "can relax. You'll do some reading at a library, painting out some of the kind of graffiti that's actually damaging, and, if we can work it out, putting some murals up in their place with some local kids. Probably doing some work with the homeless and / or cleaning up the parks. The city," her grin turned evil, "has absolutely _no_ idea of what they've let themselves in for."

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Any resemblance of mentioned places to real places is purely coincidental. I am not a lawyer: Follow Caroline's directions regarding what to say to cops until you get your own.  
> This work brought to you by the awesome betaing by the incredibly patient [Yin-Again](http://yin-again.livejournal.com/)
> 
> Usual disclaimers apply regarding ownership of recognizable characters.
> 
> Finally, yes: there is a piece of socially responsible graffiti. It showed up one day at the end of my street (where we do, actually, need a crosswalk). I just planned on walking the dogs. I had no idea a simple dog walk would prompt over 24,000 words.


End file.
